Ail in F Minor

I don't even wanna hear it.

There's those moments in a day when you wish you could just slam on your headphones and drift up and away into someplace which is far away, like space, but more like the rim of a cloud in substance.

My eyes shutter with the drop of each beat. I try to blur out reality with the sound of heavy metal screaming against my skull.

Honestly, I know I'm supposed to give my best. But what's my best supposed to be if it's not even worth giving? I have serious doubts about this reality, but I'm pretty sure they're mutual. So does that make it okay?

If I could ride my bike off a jump, if I could gain enough momentum, I think I could break the sky and just drift up into that space along the clouds. I woke up this morning and it was cold, which I appreciated, because it meant I could feel my heart beating.

It's a sycophantic sort of relationship I have with myself. I think I'm losing too.

If homework was a bridge and I was a chain I think the clattering wouldn't end. It'd break, and it'd fold up into that deep nothing I wish upwards, and it'd still linger on to cross.

I've got that wrench in my stomach, that deep pit I wish I could retreat into. But let's be serious for a moment. I can't actually suck myself inside an emotional pit churning in my stomach. That might make me human. And that's unrealistic.

I've got that song on repeat. I've got it banging against my eardrums so hard I can feel it in my heartstrings. I feel grounded, but at the same time if I could just get up I think I could fly, even with the weight, even with the painful frustration of passing on another attempted failure at concepts I know but don't care to engage with.

Because let's be serious. I'm just doing it for the money, so that I can go here. That passion died out when it was beaten out of me, measure by measure, until that spark I held as a kid couldn't even stand without help. And who walks when they'd rather fly?

It's a catch 22: I'm only doing it for the money, but for the money I gotta do well. But I don't care about it because I'm just doing it for the money, so I don't do that well. But I have to do well for the money.

1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, and pirouette.

I've got that song on repeat till it bleeds. I hope it does, but I'm afraid it might hurt. And that'd mean I'm human. Another little catch there.

It's amazing what letters and numbers do to a perfectly capable and sane person. The symbolism we a lot to such things has an amazing capacity to ruin us completely.

I turn up the volume to blister levels. Maybe if I can't hear I won't be able to read. Better logic has proved to be successful. Maybe this one will too.

I think the main failure of the human race is the decision that we had to assign meaning to bullshit in order for us to have a productive society. What does a computer really mean? I look at it and I see circuitry, metal casing, a mouse, plastic. And yet, contained within that energy is another world of interactions with people I have never met, am not with, and in many cases may never know. It's a fascinating example of one of the many cages we've built ourselves in.

I think I'd be pretty good at hunting. Or at least gathering. Torch the banks and boil the money for stew and roughage. Let's just wipe our asses on the flags and cut down the monuments and testaments to humanity's ability to completely fuck everyone with made up shit.

I could enjoy living a short life trying to float up with stars. And just drift. Do we really need a meaning for what we see in the mirror? Isn't it good enough that we can see, that we have a mirror, that we know that the thing looking back at us is us? At what point in history did we decide that the things we had weren't good enough, that we had to probe, and pick, and investigate, gouge and tear up every possible part of the human experience for investigation. Isn't it enough we have a human to experience for us?

I don't know if any of this made any sense or not, but I sure as heck could use just about anything to get my mind off that F I just got. And sometimes unadulterated literary rage is good for that.

It's also good to just drift away. Unfortunately, I forgot my wings. This is still the next best thing.