sept 27

Insomnia. That bright blinking light, persistent consciousness. All facts about sleeping habits circulating, flowing, breathing. Bite the bullet, brother. This nights train left the station awhile ago. You'll have to catch the next flight. If you don't fall asleep within 7 minutes. Get out of bed and do something relaxing, never listen to music, never think about all of your mistakes and try to reestablish a good relationship with your decisions you will sink that labyrinth far beneath our feet where all people suffer and are kept awake but bumping monday night tuesday morning bass, thud thud, and questions that pull open my eyelids and quicken a heart rate. confused like a philosopher. seeking searching, finding disconnected madness. alcoholism. sinking into chairs and the armchair bear hugs me, need jaws of life to disengage, need to resuscitate and revive the dying particles, the articles that have gone blue with oxygen neglect and the blood stains that dry black, but these injuries sustained are exclusively external, my high expectations shattered, drop the ball off into a ravine, a globe, a snowglobe, the tinge of excitement at a weathermans approaching cold front, fuck maybe it will snow here for the first time in all of history, and we can write scripted reality tv about our lives and call it something fancy like a clip on tie, like a pit stained tuxedo and a drunk limo driver, like the head on collision that ends our wondrous prom night, like all the kids everyone has been having, the marriages and life decisions, confusion and abortion, feeling useless like a mom in a counseling session, a van where the side doors slide open to necessitate muddy little kids and their sports equipment, my mind is racing a thousand laps per second in this dark corridor of a party sanctioned, heartless college campus. It seems all sleep peacefully in their bliss with idiot smiles and acid in the kool aid. No one would catch that reference. Everyone is stupid and happy. There are no book stores close. No walk in venues for coffee and music and art. I am a chameleon. Once to be called a hipster, now a bro. And I hate the weight all labels cast on my. Like pitiless eyes of vultures watching prey die on the side of the highway. Get your kicks, child. Feel happy and feel warm but not too hot. Feel the air conditioning but drop the electricity bill by small fractions. The people here complain. The new best friends. The drunken fighter. I have my issues. I rest my case. I don't like these people. They don't like me. I am a prototype they understand. And I don't understand them. The rave culture. The mentally retarded climate that perpetuates bad sex and terrible motives. The cycle continues and I am left in some backwater aftermath where people spend 70 dollars to get sunburned and watch blink 182 slog through a set with fans aimed at their faces. all of us die in the sweltering heat. they make dick jokes and my smile fades in the summer. i listen to radiohead. and no one understands a god damn intention of mine. i fucking hate it. where i swallow my tongue before i can speak. where i look upon others for action but everyone looks at the tv or the girls or the guys and their muscles, backwards hats, shorts and sandals, tank tops. they are a different degenerate breed. and i came here for the writing program??? astrophysics, set theory, ancient egypt, rhetorical analysis, psychoanalytic music therapy and spectra. the question haunting and lingering... what am i doing here