Sunday, April 4, 2010

oh look its

more creative writing where my brain quixotically jumps from one topic to another in showcase of a typical attempt on my part to coherently formulate an idea.

I wandered outside again. I didn't have anywhere to go, and I liked it that way. I didn't want anywhere to go, I just wanted to be out there, walking. Going. I walked down a path by a field, and I looked into the field and it looked like the most inviting place in the world. I just wandered into it. Stood there, in the middle of a field. It was big and grassy and the air felt nice, and I just looked around, like I was lost and looking for my way, except I wasn't, I was just lost.

There were some seagulls in the field with me. They were the only other thing in that field. If other people walked by they'd wonder what that guy was doing just standing there in the field. They wouldn't wonder about the seagulls, what they were doing. Nobody wonders about the seagulls. Nobody stops a seagull and demands a motivation for being where they are. That isn't expected of them. Nobody thinks seagulls have motivations. Maybe they do, seagulls have lots of motivations that they're simply unable to express in any terms that we deem valid, comprehensible. And they just go off on their business, doing what they need to.

I continued on my way. Through a ditch with some wrapping paper in it. Then a parking lot. A big, empty parking lot. I wanted to sit down in it. Just plop myself down in the middle of this big expansive empty parking lot. There were people walking by, so I didn't. They'd wonder what the fuck that guy was doing sitting in a parking lot, and I'd have no answer because it was indeed a stupid thing to do. I had no interest in formulating an answer. I mean I probably could have if I'd needed too, but who wants to do that? Who wants to think up a reason they decided to sit down in a ridiculous place, all by themselves. Impulses don't work like that. Impulses don't say "hey you need to do this because X."

Fuck it. Fuck it, I'm going back to sit in it, right in the middle of it. Am I trying to prove something to myself?

Alright, I'm doing it. I've fulfilled this important urge to sit in a big ol' empty parking lot and listen to old-skool jungle music on my headphones. The air still feels nice. My cabin fever is receding. I'm not going to shut myself up any more. This is what happens. I can't have another summer of this. This is what I've done for the past two summers. These desperate grasps in the most absurd places. I just reach my hands out and clutch and there's still a bunch of air. Which is what I expected anyway. I know what kinds of things to do, and I guess the worry is that they won't be any different than the air? Or is the air somehow important? Is it somehow important that I know about all the air?

When I walked back home, when I was inside, I turned a corner than there where people and I'm sure I jumped noticeably. There were just suddenly people snapping me out of my head. This was a new development. There were never people before, this was never done where there might be people. People were the antithesis of reaching into nothingness out of an uncontrollable need to reach after not reaching enough.

These weren't even important people, or people I knew, these were just random people I incorporated into my thought process. It's not like they were trying to do anything to me. I took their presence, and did things to myself with it, turned some cogs. Situations come in all shapes, and I just keep applying them to whatever they look like they might fit into in order to try to build something. There's no blueprint, there's never any plans. I just build, and build. Throw me some parts, I'll build. Scrap? Worn down? Ill fitting? Build. I don't feel unhappy with that. I just need to fucking build.

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