Archive | November 2014

Dog-ear the Page

I know you decided to put your life before me,
I accepted that awhile ago,
I guess I just want a little sympathy,
As the story you put back on the shelf,
After reading awhile and realizing,
Your time is better served elsewhere;
Just dog-ear the page and come back to me later,
Textbooks have always had a bigger marketing budget anyways.

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Gift

I don’t feel well, reacting this way. It feels cheap, like I’m giving a favorite niece or nephew a present, hastily bought, pre-wrapped, from the nearest 7-11 before racing to a holiday dinner.
The sincerity of the gesture isn’t lost on the person, by any means. In a moment where everything and anything could be, logically, this gift is massively better than not receiving any gift at all.
So it is given, unwrapped, and the gift is enjoyed, leaving the person none-the-wiser, concerning the arguably ‘better’ gift; which you did not purchase for reasons of your own- be them economic, geographic, or emotional.

Is this wrong? Giving the cheaper option only to find that it elicits the same joy? Or is it your responsibility as the gift-giver to give as much as you initially sought to? As much as you can? If the holiday has already passed, the person is enjoying themselves, but you know they could be having more fun if you hadn’t of been cheap, do you drown out the guilt? Or do you praise it for teaching you a lesson? How do you learn a lesson you’re clearly trying to teach yourself? Is this too mundane of an issue to take up your mental faculties for such an extended period of time? Do you ponder these questions every night as I do when I enter my subconscious, and every morning when I leave it?

My personal belief is yes. The act itself is passable as polite, but comparatively, it is downright rude. If you know someone will enjoy a certain gift, and you actively avoid that choice in favor of something that the person might enjoy, you’re not giving gifts the way I was raised to. Maybe that’s for the better, but every fiber of my being screams bloody murder when I don’t put my heart, and all of my heart, into what I commonly mistake as a ‘special moment.’

7-11

The most memorable part of the day was in a 7-11 parking lot, somewhere in the heart of Woodland Hills west of the Golden State freeway. Even with perfect vision he couldn’t imagine anyone being able to focus on the road here. The amount of flashing lights and oversized advertisements screaming for anyone’s attention (and through their visible dilapidation, not accomplishing the task) would be more than enough to cause an accident. Is there even such a thing as visual stimuli overload insurance? There would definitely be a market.

It’s funny how all of the 7-11 clerks are mostly the same. Backtrack- he doesn’t really know what 7-11 clerks are like anywhere else but here. But there’s always a brief moment of personal respect before it is stamped out in favor of ‘professional etiquette,’ or talking aggressively in well-structured sentences with poorly pronounced words. He gets it. It’s the same face he was paid to wear for a while when he was employed at a business where the monthly income was tied directly to his personality.

There’s nothing unique or special about the moment he is realizing has descended upon him. The clerk says ‘thank you’ in a mild condescending tone, offers no bag (policy? frugality? laziness?), and he bears no memory of his footsteps from the counter, across the parking lot, and into his car. He sits there for a moment, cracks open an energy drink and contemplates sitting here and watching the storefront as his Saturday night activity.

Piney IPA

The piney flavor of his chosen IPA washed down most of the emotions he was choking on as he read his touchscreen.  He wonders why more people aren’t alcoholic, if it’s this easy to put aside your problems.  It’s certainly easier than succumbing to the self- triggered panic attacks he’s all but forgotten from his high school years.

The screen glared back at him, waiting to do its job and then be put back to sleep.  The gnarled fingertips hovering over it were motionless, waiting for a cue from the nerve center that was currently in turmoil. Clicking the screen off, he exited of the car he was sitting in and tramps inside his room.

The larger laptop screen greeted him with an even harsher glare, mocking the lack of words or substance flowing in any direction at all.  Pulling on anything he manages to grasp for more than a moment, ideas began to form in barely familiar clumps in his head.  The words begin to appear, letter by letter, egging him on to try and do more, to go faster, to showboat; to diminish the raw immateriality of what he’s actually feeling.

Which he does without pause- there is no rhyme or reason to his life, why should there be here?

Selfship

I know it can’t be healthy to sit here every day,
Amidst the once- valuable lessons others have learned from,
Hearing promises from others,
Who’ve ‘been there.’

I’ve watched freshman looking half my age move past me,
I’ve been told to pull my head out of my ass,
Through all of it I just wanted to find a friend,
So I can go home.

If I find a career, great,
If I make millions, so be it.

I’m doing this for my best friend,
I might be doing it for my health,
If that’s the case,
In actuality,
The only friend I have is myself

Intellectual Monopoly

There was a time for me, for many still,
Where red icons and buzzing vibrations would jumpstart my heart,
Quickly matching pace with my growing intrigue,
Who,
Why,
Where,
Is this person thinking of me?

In the early days, a type of friendship I’m now accustomed to,
Where a click and a pat on the back elicit the same emotional feelings.

We all broke through the proxies in the schools,
We all ran back like a drug,
Even if nothing was everything,
We would all look to see.

Funny now how I’ve grown,
Not counting virtual likes as any real interest, even if it is,
Not accepting the façade you tell me I must,
Reading your stupid-ass captions in third person-
I tried to find a group of real fans,
With tangible ‘likes,’
And found myself in the midst of the lowest percentile of humankind,
Pilfering ideas and reselling them at outrageous markup,
Measuring profit as how much of someone else’s day they can waste.

Pulling

I follow inspiration like a dog would chase a bone,
Tied to a string, attached to a stick, and held in front of him, as motivation.
I don’t realize it’s behind me;
I don’t realize that I’m drawing on increasingly empty reserves;
I don’t realize the string and the stick could well be stationary.

The first thing I learned in art history is that beauty is irrelevant,
And relevance in my eye, if I am the beholder.

I’m painting a picture, a scene, inside my head,
It’s so relevant that it’s beautiful,
It’s so beautiful; it isn’t real.