Ramble, Preamble

Lately, I’ve been having these visions of violence just about everywhere I go. And it isn’t like my conscious imagination either. I’ll be standing on the PAT in the morning, or watching somebody cross a street, and all of the sudden, in my head, I can see a truck slamming in to the side of the bus I’m riding, or a trailer hitting a woman, and catching her in her stomach. I push the hair away from my eyes when the vision is over, and move on feeling grateful that nothing really ever happened. But these persistent occurrences make it impossible for me to feel peaceful.
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Sidney drug his hand across his head, and wiped the perspiration from above his dark brows. “I’m not going” he told the woman, sitting in the passenger seat next to him of his beat up yellow jeep. “I’m not going” he repeated. “I’m not going. I’m not going. I’m not going”. His eyes were narrowed, and his teeth were clenched, but his tone wasn’t whiney as one might have expected. Instead, it was almost empty of all emotion, as he took to repeating his phrase; never more or less forceful than he had when he’d first began. The woman in the seat next to him said nothing. She simply pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and took a drag off of one of the long slender cylinders.
The building next door is such a pleasant cleanly scene. The flat roof’s shingles are long and flat. The ladder climbing up the light beige brick wall is clean, and gray. And the white edging at the top of the wall is exceedingly pallid, especially for a weather ravaged place. In a strange way, it was evocative of a cake, and there was part of me that wanted to slice in to it, if only to reveal it’s true form. Nothing but a giant cake. Too pretty to be an actual building. So plain. So boring. So technical. So lovely. Standing in front of an abandoned McNally and Bond structure, whose contrast, and opposition was just as, if not more, appealing in the sense that through the broken windows, you could almost still imagine, the smell of the chic yellow paper, and the artistic splashing of coffee stains, spilled years ago. There is a subtle difference between abandonment, and abuse. And this building was not painted on by vagrants of the city, or trashy in its disposition. But rather, it was almost elegant and graceful in its old age, and in it’s emptiness. A building can be saved of ugliness, if something beautiful once resode there, like a beautiful woman, or a man in a top hat, when it was the gentlemanly thing to wear.
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I don’t want to be here anymore. So I’ll leave school. And find something so beautiful it breaks my fucking heart. I’ll leave, and keep walking towards the sun, and I’ll meet an old couple on the way, and make them come with me. I’ll do nothing. Nothing but lay in a field. A field of vibrancy, and sun, and purple and yellow flowers. And no one will be there to talk to me. No one will be there to explain myself too. And I won’t have to try to understand anything myself. I want to forget the people I’ve already met, because I don’t like any of them. I don’t like the way anybody’s head works. I don’t like the way the world is. I want a simpleton, to enjoy the simple things with, because I can’t be satisfied, (or maybe, I don’t want to) be satisfied, by only things that human beings engineered. I hate cigarettes. And alcohol. And sex. And things like that that make everything feel animalistic, and disgusting. I want to forget that the world outside of that field exists. I was to forget that anybody ever came up with jobs, or money, and social classes, or trends. I want everything I do to be pure, and based off of what will make me happy, and not based on anything else. I’m tired of restrictions. Of having to have documents and papers, and money to go where I want in a world that I’m part of. I’m tired of territory, and countries, and plane rides, and trains, instead of floating logs tied together with bamboo.
If things have to be a certain way, I wish they wouldn’t be so tainted, and uncleanly. It seems like almost anytime someone does anything it has to be for a particular reason, instead of being out of the goodness of their hearts. Business buildings should only exist if someone specifically decides that they want to do something that they later call “business”. Not cruel business though. Not thieving business. Business to help people. It’s just a shame. Because people wouldn’t need help or legal folks, or advertisement marketers, or lawyers if everybody could do things without needing to pay for it. No one would be mean to each other, because everyone could see everybody as individuals without any biases to prejudge on, and everybody would want to care about each other, because they’d put themselves in the other person’s shoes. I guess the hard part is, there isn’t a good way to think, and that’s something I wish my unconscious mind would just accept so I could stop going through the exhausting acrobatic contradictions that tumble, and clash, in my mind. It’s all like a picture within a picture within a picture. The further I go, the further I’m pulled, and the more off track I get, until I can’t even remember where I started when I began, or what the point of it is, or if there’s even a main idea hiding there at all. I think that people force themselves to enjoy human innovation, because unstained, genuine appreciation for life is impossible if the world we’ve created. We’re all so naïve. We all think existence is something significant. But nothing is significant. And the world is to enjoy. Because are lives’ are to be sustained. But nobody can do that. Because everyone thinks that there’s more to it than there is.