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.

And Then It's Monday

A little math.

I don't think 11 hours of my life has ever been more painful. I literally could scream. It'd be painful, and it'd be tearful (much like I am now) and it'd blur and break and then

It'd probably be Monday.

Weekends are supposed to be rest and comfort, not feeling like you just shat out a pointless amount of time that tore away the one time you could actually get ready for the week. Tomorrow's gonna come, and I'm gonna want it to be Friday again.

And it needs to not be like that.

I can't handle things sometimes, and when a day's worth of time cleaves you out and lays you wide for no uncertain amount of time, and you wake up from the retreated stupor of your mental shell, you realize that the one thing you'd been looking forward to, to get you through the psycho scrabble of a week's work and toiling on your own,

is gone.

I need something to punch and cry into. At the same time.

These times are supposed to be good right? That's what we all saw on TV. That's what they told us in all those graduation speeches about coming into your own and reaching the start of a new beginning for yourself.

It's bullshit.

It's the same life you've been living, except now with no one to really catch you when you fall. When you fall it's all you can do to keep your wings even and your fingers digging into the side of whatever you can reach to slow you into the descent of your own black chaotic id of pressure, 

and time, 

and nothing, 

and pointlessness, 

and depression,

and anger,

and those broken screams.

Tomorrow's gonna come, and she still won't be there. I can roll the dice all I want to, but that won't change the chances of me waking up next to her, waking up on a Saturday morning somewhere far away from this with her, and at a time when I'm not trying to fight off a sickness of both health and mind.

Chocolate is pretty good for this sort of stuff. I had a whole bag of M&M's my nice roommate got for me just now. Didn't even ask. I can't even explain how grateful I am.

It helps. But it doesn't fix.

Sure, the chemicals I imbibe will create an influx of endorphins which will rush around to wherever the hell endorphins like to chill and hopefully stop making a new ocean on my keyboard and desk.

I like this desk. The keyboard I'm still iffy about.

One of these days I'll actually sleep. I'll wake up, and I won't have to do anything. And the next day I will have the same nothing to do. And it'll be nice.

But right now, it's all those hours, literally wasted, literally tasting of salt, and I've gotta find a way to calm it down.

And there I am. Calm. That sort of dull deadness you get after you realize you've exhausted all the water your body can produce out your eyes. My desk is that ocean, and I wish it would lead somewhere.

But it doesn't. It's only in my mind that I sail away to find and bring her back to a place where Saturdays are an always.

The broken screams, the calm, that little hope for her, it's all psychological.

It's amazing how perceptions can create such vivid worlds to get lost in.

I've got less than half a day until I've got to start another. Thankfully, it won't be hard. I don't have too many obligations, and unlike the fiasco of a yesterday that is now my tears, it will be productive.

I think I've arrived at a sort of acceptance. Another fallacy: it's never about overcoming something. That means you had to beat it, had to make it feel your pain somehow, show whatever it is who's boss in this whole thing. It's good for a bit, but you can't fight such pains of society and life.

At one point, you've got to terms with the simple fact that as long as you accept the bad, there will be good. And as a long as you accept the good, there will be bad. It's not anything philosophical, it's just reality. And I think I can be there, now.

Just in time for Monday.