yeah i traded laughs in for chartsengrafs
this is the seventy-sixth page in the eighty-sheet notebook, and for once i don't really care if i run out of room at all. i have spent the past week doodling letters on paper in order to some how improve my self, but instead of words all i can see are line breaks and waxed introspect.
some lowlights (written with the last of the purple ink)
the drops fell in a concentrated pattern and saturated what lied beneath but she did not turn her head.
and the two of the xy's sit there side by side with their chairs tilted back precariously on hind legs as they attempt to understand functions of logarithms and why one of them is happy and the other is not.
she squirms from the words she only pretends to know second hand--"greasy", "used", "fruitfly", "paris hilton". and they laugh and laugh, just as she knew they would.
there's a two-liter of a coke product half-empty in his had this time every day, and i wonder if he ever finishes what he starts.
i envy the unconcious sleepyness in the eyes of others.
she said he died in a ditch of off I-94 a year ago today and we run harder so that we can concentrate on breathing.
she wears an inordinate amount of pink, but never looks rosy.
i can't remember if white is the absence of color with black being the concentration of it, or the other way around, and for some reason i'm embarrased for not knowing.
he sings the milkshake song while standing on one of those rolling chairs, twisting madly; most people turn their heads the other way.
j'aime la vive = deja entendu
he asks me but i don't reply because i know he's already forgotten his question.
she drops the orange peels from her breakfast with a thud and a crinkle of plastic garbage bags; the smell of sweet citrus fills the flourescent sleeply room.
and i just want to be darling with you; the music's made that way.
i must confess that if the ink hadn't run out i might never have come back to the keyboard. i have been trying to isolate myself within chocolate wrappers and spiral notebooks, secret caravans and brooding music. and when it comes, you'll feel the weight of it, la la la la la. i have been having dreams lately in which various authority figures in my life have been critiquing/screaming at me for my technique at playing the card game solitaire, or how i brush my hair, or how i set my alarm clock. i have been frightened to do anything; fearful of another way to make myself faster, cleaner, better. and they yellyellyell about how high i hold my head up.
there is no drama or story to this post, because you already read the prologue to the absence. it is what it is--the scribbles in the margins--and the summation of my week of headphones during classes.
i promised momma i wouldn't do it again.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 9:14 PM