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Cycles and Fences - 1127 words.
So here I am in the gyre of things; I wound up exactly where I started. Look at me now! I'm sitting on the fence that keeps animals off the train tracks. God only knows why they put a passenger train on an island this small. Tourism I suppose.
The train moves too fast. You can hardly see the landscape once it gets going. Here it comes now, clocked in at seventy-five miles per hour.
It was only two weeks ago that I was last here; only two weeks ago I sat on this very fence. A friend of mine - Travis - sat with me. Him and I are best friends. This is where we come to talk. This is where we enjoy the hot afternoons. This is where our worries fade away.
I'm now by myself, waiting on his arrival.
"Worries?" you ask. Yes, a small warm island in the Pacific seems like a place to enjoy a worry-free life. Never the case. Lately it seems that tourism is on the decline. We hear of disease and recession. We hear of the economy. There are no more tourists in miniskirts, waving at us as they stroll by.
Ask most anyone and they'll tell you I'm an introvert, a troublemaker, and a character destined to go nowhere. Ask Travis and he'll tell you I know too much for my own good, and that I need to apply myself. Ask any of the tourists I've slept with in the past two years and they'll tell you a story of a poet, a drug addict, and a psychopath on the brink of self-destruction.
There's an interesting story to go along with the girls I've met over the past two years. Tourists: pretty and young and full of life. A perfect muse. As a writer I look for outlets of creativity. I have a notebook filled with conceptual imagery, poetic data, and symbolic and meaningful text. My text is in no order, but once a month I find myself at the docks, greeting the young tourists as they come to the island. I bring my notebook. The girls are very open to my advances, and after showing them around, I bring them to the hotel bar where we discuss the grandiose design of nature and season. I'm very forward with my intentions, and I tell them I wish to use them as a muse: an outlet for my creativity. A drunk tourist in her miniskirt willingly accepts. I bring her back to her hotel room, and with my pen and notebook in hand, I begin to draw her with words. I speak aloud, but not what I write down. I dictate her poses and her actions and she follows. She sips espresso, and brings me my pipe. Naked as the day she was born, she floats around the room as per my commanding orders. We kiss, she unbuttons my shirt, and still I write. My muse has crafted my poetry, and it is no longer tobacco in my pipe. Opium smoke plumes fill the room as I close my notebook. We make love. I leave her. Naked as the day she was born.
Twenty-four separate tourists. Twenty-four months. Twenty-four encounters with the cute girls in their miniskirts. They never see me again, and they never speak of the night they have. Ask any of the tourists I've slept with in the past two years and they'll deny any memory of the drug addicted psychopathic poetic on the brink of self-destruction. That night never happened as far as anyone else is concerned.
Twenty-four is a number to be proud of. My notebook, now two years in the making, is something to be proud of. Perhaps something to be published. I carry it with me now. I carry it here as I wait, because the writer in me is planning something special.
So here I am in the gyre of things; I wound up exactly where I started. Look at me now! I'm sitting on the fence that keeps animals off the train tracks.
The train moves too fast. You can hardly see the landscape once it gets going. Here it comes now, clocked in at seventy-five miles per hour.
It was only two weeks ago that I was last here; only two weeks ago I sat on this very fence. Here is Travis now, just barely in sight, confused as he looks at me. He can see me sitting on the fence, the train is too close, and approaching much to fast. This is a needle he cannot thread. He won't get to me in time. He stares at me puzzled; he stares at me blankly.
Running and shouting my name, Travis is powerless to stop me now. Instantly he recognizes my notebook, finally full, and finally complete. There are papers coming out from the sides, and it looks old and weathered and yellow: much older than the day I showed him my first poem.
Rue was her name, and the poem was written as a ballad. Rue was particularly appealing to me, as she shared her name with a flower. I entitled my piece "Sorrow and Repentance". It's all I could think to feel after having done what I did. It became an addiction, and the guilt was lifted slightly with each successive piece.
Naked as the day I was born I stand now on the fence. The train is mere moments away and Travis is screaming my name. Everything plays out slowly, and the next few seconds take forever. Notebook in hand, I jump too early. As I fall through the air my heart pounds once... twice... three times. I feel weightless as I land directly in front of the oncoming passenger train. I never intended to hit the ground, and only now can I fully comprehend the nature of what I have done. There's no pain as the train moves through me. A bright flash and nothing is real. The worn notebook erupts into a thousand individual pages.
God only knows why they put a passenger train on an island this small.
Travis sits on the fence. Never again does the train come by.
I had to write this down, it was in my head all day. Came to me in an opium-dream.
Of silver and gold,
Of beauty and beast,
Of heart and inhibition.
The silver jeweled beauty
Dressed head to toe in purple silk--
Deep as amethyst--
Descends a staircase.
The beast withdraws himself--
With a mouth full of gold,
He is unable to speak.
Silver and gold,
At one time may have been rare earth,
But their attraction faded
As their similarities shone through.
-HERES A STORY I WROTE. TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK-
Together, without further presence, sat Heart and Inhibition in the upstairs apartment of Heart's father's coffee shop. Snuggled together on an old couch, neither Heart nor Inhibition spoke a word as they sat idle, staring into the skyline of the big city on the horizon. The fading sun at the edge of the globe was a reminder to both apartment occupants that tomorrow was coming, meaning an other day would pass for the two.
As the light faded from the sky, the candle lighting the room slowly weathered and withered with time, becoming dimmer with each crawling inch until eventually it would fade into nothingness. Still, Heart and Inhibition sat idle, holding hands, looking forward through the window, and speaking not a word.
Every so often, after the light was nearly gone, Inhibition would take a look at Heart and think to himself. You could tell when he was thinking of her by his blank stare and his nervous lip biting. He would look only for a moment, never long enough for her to notice and look back, and yet the reason he looked over was with the hope that she would be looking back.
With the exception of some ad libbing and disorganized spewing of facts and flawed logic, Inhibition remained relatively quiet throughout the bulk of the night, still holding Heart's hand, and still peering over at irregular intervals. The two made no assumptions about, nor did they judge, each other, and still the were nervous to progress beyond the zone they were in. Why the nervousness existed was a mystery to them both, because both of them wanted progression.
Coincidentally, both Heart and Inhibition were only together because of their overseeing all encompassing friend, Progression. Progression knew the both of them all too well, and was able to manipulate them in ways even their parents could not. This manipulation is what brought the two together, and encouraged them in mysterious ways, even when it seemed like nothing felt right.
The evening passed, and Inhibition had to be home. He said his goodnight and snaggled a hug from Heart. On the walk home in the brisk air, Inhibition would think over everything he did, and what he left out. He always wished for his evening to turn out differently, and tonight was no exception. The whole night would play out in his head, and Inhibition would sleep alone once again.
I'm totally writing a book. I've got a great idea, and I'll keep you posted. I'm not going to bother posting each chapter here, but I'll give you updates and snippets. Wish me luck!
I love coffee. I've had 10 cups today and I feel great. What's your opinion on the matter?
C H A P T E R - 4
Precisely 7:50am is when her alarm was set to go off. The clock doesn't read that way though. She purposely sets in 17 minutes ahead to read 8:07. If you wake up thinking it's 8:07 your mornings seem about 15 minutes longer, and that snooze button is a lot less tempting.
Those precious morning minutes are just that, precious. After an exceptionally long shower, it seems like only 3 minutes have passed since she woke up. When the clock outside your room reads 8:10 you begin the believe it has only been 3 minutes.
Candi has a habit of always covering up with a towel. It seems normal to cover yourself up after a shower, but living alone she's hides away beneath a white towel. Throwing on some dirty jeans and a black top she hit up the fridge for a carton of yogurt.
The clock reads 8:45 and it's time to leave. Struggling to fit into her slip on shoes, she grabs a cigarette, her lighter, her keys, and sprays herself down with some cheap perfume. After locking the door to her apartment, she turns around to be greeted by a man in a black suit wielding a bouquet of white roses. Naturally it's an other creep she'd been with in the past.
"Piss off!", no time to deal with people like this. Candi simply pushed him back and stormed down the hall to the stairwell.
With a cigarette in her mouth, she grabbed the lighter from her back pocket moments before leaving the building. Her fucked up habits and the people she was messed up with was upsetting. A single tear rolled down her cheek, and brushed aside as she lit up.
At the end of the butt there's a light-headed feeling to calm her slightly, but you can't exactly hide from life with the insignificant drags of a cigarette. Heroin was much better for escaping reality, and you can bet she was on her way to score some smack.
A typical intravenous drug user makes a special effort to wear long sleeves, and hide her shame. Candi wasn't a typical user. Of all the people that poke, Candi was probably the only one to consistently use her calves. Two large veins carry the blood to the heart. The journey of the hot freebase heroin rushing through her bloodstream lasted much longer, and was more painful. Sometimes the pain before the rush was the best part.
A dark man sits in his car on the corner of 6th and 9th, tinted windows and a matte black Honda, waiting for addicts to step in to make a quick sale. Candi pulls $40 out of her purse, steps inside, and hands the man the money. He tosses her two baggies of tan powder. She gets out of the car and the man pulls away.
Walking back up the street, she smokes an other cigarette to ease the feeling of guilt, brushing her tear away once again as she lights up. She puts out the butt, and rounds a corner.
Candi, looking at a mirror image of herself in the glass of a clothing shop, finds herself bumping into a grubby looking man, much taller than she, unshaven and greasy. The sunglasses and pajamas throw her off a little, but she couldn't help notice him stop for a sec.
Candi made her way to a shittier apartment than her own, and met up with Rick. A rather large man, but she'd know him since high school. Again, a much older man, and their relationship had progressed over the years. Rick was special to her, because he was the man who got her hooked on heroin.
Funny, the name of an addictive drug that plagues the homeless population of the big city is a homophone of a Female Hero.
They sat there for a good portion of the morning and well into the afternoon, itching their bodies, and smoking. Finally when she'd had enough, and come down from the high, Candi stole some coins from a jar of change sitting in Rick's apartment. This was for the bus ride home.
The number 10 rolls by this part of town once every 45 minutes. It wasn't long though, 'til the driver picked her up. She dropped in the change, and headed for the back seat of the bus.
No place to smoke, Candi nervously fiddled with her lighter, and wiped away yet an other tear from her cheek. Spacing out from reality, she considered pulling her journal out from her bag several times. It never happened.
The stranger she had bumped into previous got on at the next stop, tilted his glasses, and was nothing short of surprised to see Candi sitting at the back of the bus.
Thought provoking questions and a fucked up girl with answers, sitting at the back of a bus, both on a low from the shit they did earlier. Candi wiped a final tear from her cheek, smiled at James, and put her lighter away.
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C H A P T E R - 3
The sound of an alarm clock can linger in a dream for minutes before startling somebody awake. No matter how groggy you are after realizing the alarm was reality kicking in, a shower, two cups of coffee, and a muffin can make even the most tired of people forget they were asleep.
After booting up his computer again, the writing would never flow. Thoughts flowed freely in his head, all questions that he couldn't answer until he met somebody to ask. Since his thoughts never flowed cleanly onto the page, questions remained unanswered. Thoughts of "Do I write a love story, maybe a series of short stories?" were not uncommon. "Once I get a title the words will start flowing". They never did.
Typed on his page in bold underlined text was "Proud to be Crazy".
"What good is a fucking title if I don't have an idea?"
James proceeded to hit the kill switch on his fancy new computer. A cellphone on his desk began to buzz and travel about the table. 'Private' written on the display.
"Hullo?" he said. His mind was mentally awake but his speech still needed a few minutes to catch up. "Yeah, I'll take an eighth for shur' man", he lazily grunted "giv'me fifteen minutes and I'll be there."
James grabbed his wallet and stuffed it into the front pocket of his pajama pants. He threw on an old shirt from the floor and grabbed his sunglasses from the counter.
It was his dealer that called. Nobody could refuse a good deal on some green. $20 for a weeks worth is never a bad deal.
The sunlight at 10:00 in the morning feels hot compared to the cool temperature. Greasy unkempt hair reflects the sunlight. Taking a shower didn't help much. Walking down the street the only thing that catches James' attention on his journey south of his apartment is a girl. Not something that would usually catch his eye, a shorter girl with Blond hair with a pink highlight passes by him and briefly nudges his shoulder.
He looks back, tips his sunglasses down, and most importantly catches her scent before looking where he's going. Something about the scent kept him interested. Coconuts and cigarettes were all he could think about for the rest of his walk.
Sitting on a porch swing in the back yard of his mate's house, James eagerly waited for the dealer to arrive and bring the two of them some bud. Rob, his friend since high school, was a talentless pot head, with nothing going for him. He was the business end of the drug deals. James never got into the car with the dealer, and never spoke to him aside from the weekly phone call with pricing and strain.
They each took a rip from Betty. Betty was the 2 ft. bong they'd smoked out of since they were 16. It was a $200 replacement for Roxy, who broke the first week they got her. There was good memories from each weekly visit, but that would change today.
When you start to think about girls, your future, and your writing, you lose touch with the fact that you're high. When the high hits you again, you freak out. It's what happened to James. He was convinced there was more than just weed in his hit. He didn't feel high, he felt batshit crazy. He was freaking out and asking questions. Too many fucking questions. The last thing he wanted was to end up in the hospital or dead because of something he thought he smoked.
Circular logic was fucking with his head, and he could barely remember his own name, but the smell of coconuts and cigarettes plagued his fading mind. After hours of asking the same question he awoke inside on a bed.
"Am I dead?"
"Dude, you're freaking!"
"What's her name?"
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"Eh... nevermind. You got a bus ticket? I don't wanna walk home."
"Sure man" Rob ripped off a stub and threw it on James' chest, still rising and falling rapidly, "there you go."
Leaving Rob's house, he waved a friendly hello to Rob's aunt. It's been a while since he talked to her. Just a simple "Hey" and he was out the door.
Sitting their waiting at the bus stop, still a little high from earlier, he stared at an empty red bull across the street. Fixated on it, he couldn't look away. "Maybe I could right about this" he thought. The bus pulled up and he stepped on.
Looking towards the back, there was a short girl with blond hair with pink highlights sitting in the last seat at the back.
Coconuts and cigarettes.
Continue to Chapter 4.
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C H A P T E R - 2
From a small town about an hours drive south of the big city, Candice Blackburn moved to the big city when she was 13 years old. An intelligent young girl mixed up with drugs is now sitting in her downtown apartment with an open Journal. Something she's kept with her since she moved into her dad's house.
Scrawled away in her tattered journal, with dribbles of ink from her fountain pen staining each page, she wrote "January 14. Today marks eleven years since the passing of my mother. I can only hope she". Staring blankly at her nearly empty page, you could swear she was on drugs. This time however, she was happy to be sober.
Candi's drifting mind had cost her a job and a home in the past. Working with people requires a long attention span, so naturally she chose to work with dogs. Grooming animals for 8 hours a day allows her to lose herself in an endless train of thought, chugging through a train yard of imagination.
Candi was a name picked up by many of her ex boyfriends. It seemed as though nobody had ever called her that since her very early years. Dating older men her whole life, she always seemed to be a few years ahead of her peers with drinking and drug use. Her habits would never be grown out of, and as much as she would resist, she always managed to find an older man to treat her like trash.
This would never change. She knew it couldn't.
In a euphoric state of a blank mind, Candice's pen fell from her hand, coating the open page in her journal with a thick layer of black ink before she collapsed.
Candice would spend the night on the floor of her apartment next to an ink covered page of an old tattered journal. Typical.
Continue to Chapter 3.
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C H A P T E R - 1
"How can I begin to describe myself?". This was all an open document read while James sat idle, staring blankly into the glowing shine of his fancy new computer. With the lights dim, all that could be seen was the bright white glow reflecting off the keyboard.
James Brooke, a real fuck up. All he was to anyone was an unestablished writer living in a big city. He lacked what most people possessed, motivation. Most of us have goals, and when you have a vision of Utopia, your goals fall into place real easy.
Astonishing as it was, James lacked the basic human trait. One day he hoped his whole life would come together. His vision of supporting a family with his writings never left his mind, but when each passing day brings no inspiration, he never invested time into his dream.
A few more words he tapped. They read "I can only hope good fortune falls my way".
Good fortune in his mind was getting the most out of anything he did with the least amount of input. In school nothing James would do ever exceeding the expectations of his peers, teachers, or parents. Day to day, showing up, absorbing what he would from the lectures, and spacing out during any free time.
His dream of a wife never became a goal. His aspirations as a writer never came through. Try as he might, James would never write a piece that didn't feel forced. His brilliant ideas made sense in his head but never translated that way onto paper.
Everyone knew reality would hit him. It was a natural part in everyones life. Perhaps at 27, he was a little late, but his parents, his brothers, his friends, they were all waiting for that one life changing moment where the facts of life would slap him in the face and alert him to the surroundings he should be aware of.
Unfortunately for James Brooke that day would never come.
A few strokes of the backspace key and his filtered thought process was erased from the page. A blank document remained open as the James hit the kill switch on his fancy new computer.
"Goodnight." he whispered, though it would be heard by nobody.
Continue to Chapter 2.
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In a world where escaping reality is frowned upon by the ignorant and likened by the weak minded, little room is left for the educated. Perhaps some could take comfort in knowing the truth, that which we desire the most is what we cannot possess. Meaningless existence of a creation will only end with a sense of dissatisfaction and an overwhelming state of confusions. "What if"s.
What if the series of events leading up to this point had never occurred in the first place. A single point in time disrupted by a single moment causing this whole chain of events to never occur. What if I had kept a comment to myself instead of expressing it on paper?
We can always ask these kinds of things but what truly matters will be disrupted when we all come down. A question of when will be lingering over every conversation and the best you can do to fight it is ignore it. Passion is something that cannot be achieved through thought alone, and what we expect of others and ourselves is concealed within what only we know and expect of each other.
Where can one draw the line between reality and the falsities in everyday life that make us human. Almost a paradox of increasingly large proportions.
Why is it that the ignorant flourish, the foolish perish, and the truly capable fall through the cracks. Motivation is what drives us all as much as we would hope, though it could be the very cause of societies flaws. We are told we're not good enough and we succeed. We are told we are truly gifted with talent and that we're going places, laziness ensues. In an attempt for any recognition at all we turn to the easiest source of attention. Punishment is love and compassion holds us back.
Tediously ticking away at our own clocks, taking the time to clear space. Ultra neatness. Perfection on the outside so the true interior cannot be revealed. Nobody needs to see the mess of shit that is about to hit them when the door opens. Bombarded with facts, and proof of incoherence.
Strengthening the bonds that keep us in touch with ourselves, out interdependencies, and our own instances of reality. The true pass time of every nation and every soul embodied by a third party. The truths of our minds, the truths that matter. Visualizing a false reality as you would have it. Insanity to some, coping for others, and a challenge on our perspective for those who fall through the cracks.
Between our mind and actions, what is to come of our futures from what we can barely piece together of our past?