In the music store, it hit me. A sudden despair brought on by unfounded social anxiety. That feeling where I will never make a new friend again. Something so awful and undiagnosed. I fell into a pile of ashes at the burnt sage carousel. There was a boredom and a waiting. But I do not desire to sit on my ass and drink 19 dollar tequilas until the end of time. Drinking for the sake of it is awful and something I know I will do way too much in two months. I will stay up tonight to watch the perseid meteor shower. Sweating buckets and full of negative self talk. Feeling anxious from all directions like a crowd of evil minded people prodding at me with fire pokers. Boiling hot ones. Every new distraction from personal goals. Killing me. Too hot. Functionless. Paint melts and fades in this. I can't work. Strings break. Body is lethargic and isolated. There are no helping hands present.
The woman in the black corvette has no idea that I daydreamed about crashing head on into her at 45 miles per hour. She waited patient in the middle lane for an opportunity to cross over into a neighborhood or pull a u-turn. Her intentions were unclear. Then I decided against because I didn't trust my seatbelt to keep me uninjured. I wanted to shake the foundations of life around myself and around others. I sit in this room and boil and they have poolside prestige pretty rich friends in high places shopping out ideas for new debauchery to the world. Hurt my ears with information regarding recycling plants. Everyone is ignorant. Therefore convictions make no sense. Ever. There is nothing between myself and all the rest. This is a horrible feeling. The black corvette is not a symbol of any suicidal ideology. I just wanted instantaneous drastic change. Random excitement for a few moments. Balloons to fall from the ceiling. Clowns with flare guns firing them drunkenly, all with bottles of jager in the other white gloved hand. I wanted sparks and fireworks, bonfires, electrical wiring failures. Water to rain up from the earth in physical disbelief. Women to talk about interesting things to me and with me though never AT me. Strange how easily I could live without purpose or motivation. I could so easily fall behind the necessary pace to get where I want as quickly as I need. A few mph slower and I might have ran into her!
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I went out for a run but fell short. It turned into a walk because I did not want to get sick on the sidewalk. Undigested and half digested food rolled around in my stomach. Nauseous and dizzy with the threat of night in the air. I punched a stop sign, denting it. Hands shaking back through the dead neighborhood. The only sounds are my ankles popping and crickets. Thousands of crickets, all lucky and all unlucky to be tread on. What a fear. Every crunching leaf beneath me might have been an innocent, stupid, life. Something only content on hopping around as a good omen. Whistling through the blackened sky. I held my face in my hands outside of the church. Already closed in observance of a normal sunday. There was writing in chalk on the sidewalk outside. Presumably by children, probably by bad children as punishment, or by the good nature of naive young hearts brought up without violence or cursing, 'be excellent to everyone' and 'be happy' and smiles and sunshine. A heart faded away by the winds. I nearly crumbled into a ball and cried until meteors showered into these sleeping homes and everything hidden suddenly came into light. I would have cried, sobbing infant-like, until the presumed earthquake broke everything in Los Angeles in half. Newsworthy attention to all of the littlest acts of heroism and humility or egotism. The neighborhood so damn quiet. I made eye contact with a little girl as she stood looking sad through the window, standing on a scale. Shapes and shadows behind windows. Her parents apparently fans of classic renaissance painters. Portraits all over every possible space. Liven up that damned claustrophobic feeling. Board up all hope and disassemble fear into the curvacious, eccentric woodwork. Exquisite, they'll say. Everyone must be on summer vacation. Lights off in most houses. Saturday night shenanigans perhaps. Or the annual trip to where-ever-the-fuck. The one dad saves up for but hates going to on account of the lack of relaxation for him in lines and waiting. He must slave after his children to give them an opportunity he never received. Prolong innocence! Keep doors closed and never violent video games. Keep them clean and whatever they come to be can never be your faulty parenting. But Dad cries on vacation. He drinks a lot and yells a lot. Turning beet red in the sun and then in the moon again at Mom. They hide as much as they can. Water slips through. Always. Always cracks. Always. I feel incredible pity for that boxed in cocoon feeling that little girl must feel. Hand on the window like she is an animal trapped in captivity. The one that grew up wild briefly before being thrown into entertainment, into prison. Into the real world where Californians speak their minds and try to get their dicks wet at clubs. They have awful language and the shit they can conjure accidentally with simple terms of expression can cripple a child. We are all still the children we were once. Just as a tree grows. Every stage of development remembered in layers of beauty bark and the scent of evergreens in a morning mist is always invigorating and incredibly humbling. I need to be humbled and sit down and listened to. I need to have a real conversation about real concerns about the lack of reality around me. I need real love in fake life. I must find an escape through something that involves outside opinion. I cannot control and diagnose my issues all alone as a therapist analyzes themselves between cases, as the tree falls silently, everyone hears something, briefly, just behind their back.
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I have no outside location to watch a meteor shower without anxiety. This will never feel like my home. They have 18 years over me. I'm surprised I hear and see no one despite the decently clear skies and all of their wonderful back yards (I peek over or through fences). Late night walk, green lights from beside the house, to light the way back inside, the appearance of a chill area, somewhere to smoke pot and talk with friends about meteors. Drink hot buttered rum and sleep back to back on the straw mat or the hammock beyond the pool. The pool is a good location to watch a meteor shower but I know I do not have the courage to make that happen for me. My god I've never even been inside the house. Paying rent for who knows how long and feeling sweating and dying and cold. The air was hot my ankle popped constantly. I could hear a rock band in the distance. A bar perhaps. I can hear my approaching birthday in the distance. I fear that lack of control. I don't live in excess. I want to do all things but I do not want to leave a bad impression on the environment. On humanity. I don't want to perpetuate a bullshit standard and be demoralized into figments of little girls imaginations. Oh well. I missed the shower even before it happened because I know soon I will be sleeping alone fitfully in a filthy bed with filthy dreams to carry me under. Tonight would be a good night for a chance to have wishes granted. Maybe then my life could make a social upturn.
