It's Alright

When I was in middle school I sat in the forgotten tomb of my brother’s room trying to master Guitar Hero. And I got pretty far, though nothing exceptional: one can only wonder what would’ve happened if you invested in an actual guitar.

Tired out I’d shut off the console and stare at the shadowed silhouette staring back. Sometimes the curtains behind were open. Couch positioned under, bed to the left. A little comfortable, a little worn: such it is as squalor suffocates everything with enough time.

I’d turn around hoping, toward that halfway abyss with the faint of the neighbor’s wall opposed. A/C kicking on to sync. Maybe some aliens would finally show a better place.

If I took out my phone and surfed through my texts, the last one was a month ago. Some promo. Fan methodically whirring to shake, because there’s no need to fix something that isn’t entirely broken.

If I walked in a zig-zag pattern between classes or employee facilities I could forget the commute and all of the other bodies passing me. Half the eyes seem like they’re in a Lexapro trance, solidified there’s nothing to chance. Why not join them?

It’s alright. Maybe one day there’ll finally be a breakthrough. Finally it’ll make sense. How much time in silence as prerequisite, toward capturing that nuance you can’t name?

I think it’s a common fantasy: you finally break your silence and each word uttered and draped, drenched in meaning. But it doesn’t work like that. There’s always a bumbling and it takes a little practice to talk in a condensable and amusing way. Smash your inner crystals and fit them into common puzzle pieces.

Additionally, what is there to describe about something like feeling already buried while you’re alive? My coworkers snide remarks sound the same and muffled as the chiding in school weld hallways two decades ago. I’ve been starting and deleting a lot of entries.

I think you should always be suspicious of those who neuter their language. They are so disconnected from a fundamental of human existence, holding onto a decorum that doesn’t exist. And I say these things because I aspire preserve something while roaming the eunuch society (read: online). Voyeurs and eunuchs.

Sent here to watch you die. A task half-done, surely. As roaming around half of the homes, apartment to shopping centers reverb a death march: cracks along the paint and the coughing along dead palms. Even reading half the scribbles online I can, through the screen, feel neuroclusters collapsing.

Sent to witness death, though I never wondered if anyone wanted to witness mine. It’s alright. I don’t want that.

We have a lot of opinions, do you want to talk about it? Oh you read a lot of history? How’s that working? Utopia around the corner it seems… but I don’t think it accounts our current condition. Tell me about the college football, and that’s great and all…

Some make it through, maybe.