skipping cracks in the street

I used to like walking around, just feeling the ground go under my feet. Its not that I liked the outdoors, or the sunshine. I could have done without the noisy neighborhood dogs that seemed to always want to jump me. I think it was because I just wanted to get away from the house.

There was no bad home life in my past. My parents didn’t beat up on me or didn’t humor me. There was no evil aunt who smacked my hand. I was like kin of my castle back then. I climbed whatever tree I wanted in the backyard as long as I came down safe. I wanted to get away from myself.

I was a morose child. I liked to think of dark things as a contrast to my ordered life. I constructed daydreams wherein chaos ripped through my life leaving me nothing but hope. I hated that I had a very good imagination.

Left alone I could think myself into paranoia that maybe someday soon my parents would both fall sick and I would be left to some relative in the province. I would have to grow up picking tobacco leaves to help the family earn some money. I would no onger study because we had barely enough to eat everyday.

Or that my parents would realize that I wasn’t there’s. that there had been some mix-up at the hospital and their real child had been found. I on the other hand came from an unknown woman who died on my delivery. Then things would change. Whatever special feelings they had for me before would be transferred to this usurper, this relative unknown. Who would in turn turn out to be a brat sent from hell, getting me into all sorts of trouble.

The scariest scenario is that I wake up and there are absolutely no other people left on earth. I walk through rooms where the only thing that moves are curtains pushed by the wind. No sound of cars anywhere. No tv (a child’s nightmare in itself). No electricity. And then night comes. The dark swallows me up like a heavy sheet. The moon staring down at me like the only thing it can see.

I think that’s why I walk around. I try to feel something else than what I have created. I guess I am afraid of myself. Of what my idle hands could do if left alone.

I hate being alone.

READ ME!!! READ ME!!!

that would be more obvious but my fear has gone. read me and react. I need your ‘voice’ as you need mine. we already have a relationship and you didn’t realize it. I have watched leaves as hey float to the ground and so have you. admit it! you and I are the same! why do you run? doesn’t hurt to send me email. I just want to make sure like you do. expect reactions from drunkenfury@yahoo.com.

music on the bedsprings

its not about sex you perv! music plays a huge part of my life. I am one of those pathetic individuals who love to listen to music and react to those cues. whether lyrically or otherwise, I take those cues and release emotions just for the sake of it. I’d make a good actor don’t you think, able to unlock emotions from some aural cue?

I’ve got the radio on to a local rock station. props to the one that gets it right. ‘it’s my home.’ only clue you get. rock on, dude.

music unlocks something doesn’t it? personally I don’t understand electronica (read music not made by an actual instrument). please, someone explain it to me. seriously, explain it to me (even my friends, I feel like It has no emotion). I don’t get it. I’d love to have the ability to go on stage with some instrument, like the k-hon (props ‘cuz’) and play my heart out. play with my heart beating so fast I’d be sure that I made a mistake. sing with lyrics that made to no one but me, or at least I believed. I’d love to sing my heart out, play my heart out. but actually given the situation I’d probably be the hiding ostrich, undeniably obvious in intentions.

‘iv’e come face-to-face with myself now’

I look in the mirror and see a happy person who doesn’t have the faintest idea of what he’s going through. its called growing. I was so sure that I had given up the possibility of that happening. perhaps it happened while I was asleep. perhaps some aliens gave my soul a scrub and you’re looking at the brillo (fake implication). perhaps the glass over-filled and your seeing years of emotion bleed onto your screen.

what is music?

wasting away at the tv

for some reason I have stopped writing. I used to believe that the skill had left me, which is of course preposterous. nobody loses the skill of writing, one merely uses it to do menial things rather than sculpt sentences. and that is what I had hoped to do, be an artist with words. it had puzzled me for a very long time whether I had just given up squeezing the rag dry, or was convinced that the rag was dry without even touching it. my humorous side is convinced that it wasn’t a rag at all, but rather a bottle. a dirty bottle with murky contents and an unreadable label. should I open it or not? should I taste what’s inside or leave it to some other fool to die by its contents?

let me tell you, that murky liquid tastes like heaven! why I would have chosen to stay silent is beyond even the mind that decided to. now I tap away at these keys hoping that somehow I can connect with some feeling I have. connect it with someone else’s emotions and create a spark. I believe I have unlocked myself and it frightens me.

I hate taking a look back at what had occurred. things that make no sense while it happens, but in hindsight seems to have been orchestrated by some master hand. I hate realizing that I don’t have control. so whatever events leading to my ‘nirvana’ I will not, as of yet, bring up. ‘past Is past’ as a brilliant soul repetitively told me years ago. I don’t burn brides, I keep a map and walk that path just to feel a bit of pain for the fun of it.

I wonder what I will write tomorrow?