The sunlight poured through the lone window, crept through the blinds, before dancing upon his slightly shut eyes. They opened, he cursed the sunlight, the obvious culprit; the temporary blindness confused him, before his body rushed him to the bathroom. Strewn across the floor on the way to the bathroom, were empty condom wrappers settling among the landscape paved by stained shirts and empty beer bottles. On each shirt, was a sticky note reminding him of which ones could get him lucky. The hastily written notes, pieced together each inebriated night, as it was every night. After he finished pissing, his body shook and he threw up the remnants of his last adventure. The bathroom walls, a despicable shade of yellow matching the contents of the toilet before he flushed. The floor, riddled with cigarette butts, a quickly fading shade of white mixed with brown ash marks. His bedroom floor, while still carpeted, was layered with a grimy mixture of green and brown, the result of his late night extravagances with girls who couldn’t remember their names and the countless spilled drinks between them. As he made his way into the shower, stepping over the mold raging a war with his tiles, he thought about what he will do today. He twisted the rusted knob to the right, halfway down, and released the water. He resorted to planning while he showers because he only has a few minutes of hot water. He stepped out, eyeing himself in the mirror, his usual 5 o’clock shadow hugging his square broad chin, he ran his hands through his hair to straighten it down, as he stared at the face gawking back at him. His earthly eyes, slowly dancing around the mirror, watching the fog dissipate from the mirror as the picture comes into focus. He walks to his dresser, running his fingers along the fine wooden finish; he wonders how much he could get for it, he eyes his pack of cigarettes next to the half finished bottle of whiskey, occupying the space where the television sat, along with the radio. He reaches for it, pulls out a cigarette, feels his pockets for a lighter, and lights his routine morning cigarette. He draws in slowly, the feeling soothes him. He flicks the ashes into the stained brown glass ashtray, ashes and cigarette butts scattered within. He stamps the filter of his cigarette into the bottom of the ashtray, and begins the hunt for some clothes to wear. He scrounges for one of the less stained shirts, a plain brown box design rests gently on the front of a light blue colored shirt, from the pile; he sniffs it, and throws it on. He jumps into the faded dark jeans he wore the day before, and slips on his dark Vans, running his fingers along the top of the worn out, battered shoes. He makes his way to the front door, strutting through an assortment of paper littering the floor with each step. He steps outside, breathing in the musky, damp air of the city. He locks the single bolt on the door out of habit, even as he thought he had nothing left to steal.
He strolled down the third flight of stairs to the street next to the deteriorating red brick building in which he resided, the paint chipping and the cracks worsening, he thought nothing of it and carried on. He spied a group of kids playing stickball on the street. Crack! A ball hurled towards him, instinctively he crouched down to scoop the ball and make the play at first, the last out. As he ran back in to get a bat to go hit, the coach pulled him aside, and whispered in his ear. He threw his glove to the end of the dugout, and slumped to the end of the bench, holding his face in his hands to fight back the tears. He pushed the brim of his hat down below his eyes, and he sat there. Innings went on, and the game ended, however he did not move an inch. The other kids walked by, joking and laughing with each other, as he sat there leaning on the bricked support wall next to him. He closed his eyes, and wished for the best. Nightfall startled him, as he thought he might as well walk home now. Flashing lights and two squad cars met him at his home.
“Where have you been, I have been worrying about you.” gasped his mother through choked sobs, as she kept muttering, “my little boy, he won’t hurt you again, no one can hurt him again.” He ran up the stairs to the living room, under the yellow tape, to the sight of chalk line imprints depicting a heavyset man with a shotgun nearby.
“Hey mister, can we have the ball back now?” squeaked the kid, tapping him repeatedly on the arm. “Sorry about that, kid.” He softy uttered, noticeably choking up as he spoke. The kid began walking back to the others, “wait, how about I buy you a new one? This one looks a little worn down.” he said, while feeling the course skin of a baseball that relentlessly gets battered daily. “I’ll be right back.” He strolled along the cracked pavement to the drugstore. He came back quickly enough with a new white ball, gleaming with pride. The kids vanished into thin air, as quickly as they appeared. He couldn’t believe his eyes, “they were here just a second ago.” He muttered softly below his breath.
Its over. I guess I was just distracted before by the impending mountain of work, the mysteries surrounding the adventure I had last night, and the feeling of meeting a new person all over again, but eventually I would acquiesce to the waves that keep crashing, destroying each other, and riding into the shore, eager to float back to continue the cycle. We didn’t have to end it. I could have kept the charade that being happy was worth being ignorant of the truth. I was waiting. At the station, where the train would never arrive, I was waiting. I knew it, but I kept sitting in the chair with my newspaper reading the obituaries, looking for some spark of life. She wasn’t going to change. My friends told me, her friend tried to warn me(albeit in a deceitful way, but nonetheless she tried). I didn’t believe them, I didn’t even believe her. I clung to some shred of hope that she would change for me for as long as I could. It was painfully obvious, I couldn’t fully convince myself to keep believing the fallacy. I don’t think I was the only one grasping at a false hope, considering her fantasy of a perfect person sweeping her off her feet. She didn’t however knowingly set herself up for pain and confusion in exchange for some sort of happiness. I doubt she was hurt at all, she didn’t put anything in, how could she get hurt. I was recently told that you should never put in more then what the other person gives back. Never has this been more true, yet this person missed one key point. You can never truly be able to love, if you don’t put your soul into it. Now by no means am I saying that I know what love is, but I know that to be able to, you have to trust the other person fully, and put your soul into it. What I was told, never seems so true until the moment they finally settle in next to the fireplace, edging closer to feel the warmth, until the flames choke and unexpectedly consume itself within their arms, leaving only a pile of ashes for the words to bury themselves in. Who was I kidding, I never had a chance. She was dead set on staying unattached, so much so that she killed it before it could breathe. I fought this demon empty handed, desperately clinging to my false hope and fleeting happiness.
Here is to hoping writing could quench these flames within the abyss.
They’d go ballistic if they saw me writing this right now haha. They are of course sleeping. I just found an abundance of energy. I mean I don’t exactly know too many people that are insomniac on vacation, its 2:37 am and I just finished a miniarticle on the pad. Yeah, that guest check pad that I carry everywhere. I figure I can’t sleep cause I have too much on my mind.
I just realized that my handwriting is different for every article I’ve written. That is odd, considering when I hand write things normally, my writing all looks the same. It seems like it changes depending on the mood in which I write, where I write in context to surface on which I’m writing, and surprisingly the subject of the article.
Oh right, on to the idea I just had. I’m planning on writing an article a day about everyone I know. First names only to save privacy. The style is, I’ll throw out how I know you, how long I’ve known you, How I met you, and a few stories worth remembering. And I’ll sum up how you’ve changed/impact my life. Can you believe that I have the motivation to do this cause I was bored, but I can’t push myself to go to class? Haha, I definitely surprise myself sometimes. When I’m done with this project, I might go ahead and put them together to give to those who want them as something like a manuscript or book. I am definitely getting ahead of myself here, but why not look at what could happen.
Of course, I’ll still post about random stuff that happens, but my main focus everyday will be cranking out a new article.
Currently listening to: We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank and Sad Sappy Sucker by Modest Mouse
Soon: Article about Chad.
I hate writer’s block with a passion. Not just any passion, more passion then a passion fruit. I guess this is why I live my little writer pad, I can just scribble notes or stories on there without forgetting anything. Free writing has taken over planned writing for most of my work.
A little info on where I am at the moment: Typing horribly on a little laptop because my fingers are awkwardly bigger then the keys in a little hotel room while everyone is in a deep slumber. They have slept for almost 4 hours now, but its to be expected I suppose. I mean, we did fly in on an overnight flight and couldn’t sleep until 3pm today.
I have a horrible obsession with music, it runs beneath my blood as I sit and think. Currently my obsession is stuck on Vampire Weekend and Modest Mouse. However if you ask me my favorite band, I will give you a straight face looking almost exactly like :|. In the last 3 hours I have listened to,The moon & Antarctica, Good News for People Who Like Bad News, Contra, and VW’s self titled almost all on repeat.
As I sit in the dark, the shadows grow in abundance around me as the only light radiates from a small 10inch screen. The darkened lamp aside my right, jumps into my gaze as the first object when I look up from the screen, I fear every time that it has moved ever so slightly.Its brim begins changing the light patched upon itself. It swings toward me, the axle squeaking as I stare transfixed on these hallucinations brought upon from lack of sleep. There are footsteps shuffling around the door, a figure stands at the door, not a sound is made. His feet disrupting the flow of the fixed fixtures shining dimly from the hotel hallway. Was it a knock, could he have knocked? Was this a dream, or has it become my walking reality.
