Past the Time

Are you awake?

[pastthetime]

XX. Shit for brains

Sometimes I really doubt if I'm adding anything to a philosophical discussion. I have a lot to say, but it very often comes out sounding like a bunch of empty statements that don't really amount to anything more than rambling and babbling. Other times, some of what I say seems so spot on that it makes me giddy. As if I can actually give something worth reading and seriously consider.

I have so much doubt in my head it scares me. Even if I try to shut them out, they always come back, usually in proportion to how good I was feeling just before.

[pastthetime]

XVIIII. Built upon non sequitors

I cut myself for the first time a few days ago. It was 4 1/2 inch marks on on the muscle lump at the base of the thumb, top of the hand. It did feel good, I admit. 

Here's why.

Normally, music holds a certain repetition that I draw happiness from. I put songs on repeat to maintain a feeling that I want to feel, whether sad, happy, ambitious, whatever. Music is memory to me. Anyway, long story short, music lost that ability I and couldn't feel anything. I ended up cutting myself in order to feel something, a slight pain/discomfort, but only enough to feel something. At least then I felt as if I had control, or that the cutting contained the same, though narrowed, ability that music once held.

[pastthetime]

XVIII. A man doesn't know how right he is

I was reading in a room on campus earlier today. The building was one I used to enjoy studying in, so I figured that I’d enjoy reading in it to. I stayed for an hour. Towards the end I became a bit distracted, so I slumped over the table and just stayed off in the general vicinity of the door. I remember my gaze being interrupted by a few quick movements outside the room, spaced a minute or two apart. Someone stopped and looked in long enough to think that he needed to check on me. He promptly opened the door, I reacted by sitting up, and asked if I was ok. I said something like “I’m fine” and explained that he thought I was passed out or something. We had a little exchange and he left. In that exchange I remember him saying that I had a “vacant expression”…now that I think about it, I probably stare like that whenever I’m thinking intensely, my thoughts turning in. And if that’s the case, then I can look pretty vacant in public. I can remember some times when I was thinking intensely. I suppose my expression can show where my mind’s at, and vacant is eerily accurate.

[pastthetime]

Out of all the things I could have been why did I have to be me? Could have. It isn't a choice, at least not a choice by me; that I can be assure of. Speculation about possible lives comes easy throughout each day. It doesn't take much to focus my find on dreams, sometimes I don't notice my mind refocusing until I surprise awake from it.  

[pastthetime]

Where do I turn

I dwell. I can't help but dwell. on what? on everything that pertains to me, evens somethings that don't. Thinking makes things worse, but I know no other way. I can't just 'do' as others. My thoughts constantly turn towards the negative in almost all situations. An awkward drive with a new friend. 

they must think I'm strange; my one word answers, not appearing interested, rarely adding on to what they say, dry responses. I'm unpleasant. 

Being in a public place. 

those people over there, why are they laughing? what, I must have done something, must have been when I coughed, maybe I sat with an odd posture, was I staring too long? 

It always comes back to me. I'm unhappy, discontent. I do what other people do, but it hardly accommodates who I am. I know what I want to do, I've known for a while,

but what will other people think? 

it doesn't matter what they think, right? focus on yourself. Isn't that what people tell others to make them feel better? a confidence boost that hardly does what is intended.

I know, but eyes bear down on me, disapproval is painful. I'll be ostracized from what I know, change is already very difficult, where will I stand? lower than before. 

I'll just continue on my path of thought, of ruminating on that which doesn't exist.

[pastthetime]

XVII. Excerpt Two

 Wide awake. A dreamless sleep. The clock says 11, two hours and I'm wide awake. Snowing, just barely but more than before. Yawning wide I get up, search the fridge: empty. My stomach growls. I keep my clothes on from the night before and head out on my daily routine, first stop: a sandwich at the deli. I ready myself for small talk as I head out the door, like going over lines in a play. “Hello.” “I'm fine, and you?” As I turn to lock the door, I catch a quick view of Samuel out the corner of my eye, picking up his daily newspaper. Even if he co-owns a shop with his brother David, I hardly consider him a businessman. I know he sees me; he emits a little cough whenever someone he knows is within ear shot. Involuntarily, as usual, I turn and look. What control he has, or what control I lack. I already know how I'm going to answer, what I'm going to say; it's pretense. Finally he's next to me, talking, smacking his annoyingly small lips on his too large a face. “Oh, morning Samuel...”. He seems a bit too eager this morning, already guessing my routine, I let him continue on about the sunrise. “Must have, I'm sure it was nice...”, it's not worth correcting, it'd just make him stay longer. He puts a few false beliefs together and forms a fact, or so it seems to him, about my morning: I slept in late and missed the sunrise, no wonder why he's talking down. He saw something I “didn't. I don't care what he thinks I did, he begins about the weather, I don't care about the weather. “I was thinking this winter is going to be warmer than last year...”, disagreeing just to get him to leave, most people dislike arguing in the morning, it works. I suppose he was going to talk about his store, cut short by my comment it seems. Not wanting to discuss the change in climate in depth he stares awkwardly at his newspaper, opening and closing, flipping pages, not knowing what he's looking for. He begins muttering to himself a bit, something about “...early snowfall with the clouds above...”, loud enough so I feel like I'm still in the conversation. It's only too obvious that he's uncomfortable with my response and wants to leave. I help him out, “Well I'm off, good luck with your business...”, a playful jest, if only to get a reaction. I notice his brow furrows as he thanks me and says goodbye. I flash a reassuring smile and he takes it reasonably well even if he's confused. I depart knowing full well that he continues to watch me up until I turn the corner down the street. Surely there will be more of these nuances to come as my day becomes more and more drawn out.

[pastthetime]

Dream 2

I'm with my good friend Kevin and we're trying to figure out what game to play. I mention Gears 3 and he agrees. I look for the game and slowly realize I don't have it. What I do have are two versions of street fighter 4 (ps3 and 360), most of the games I would normally have, just oriented differently. They're laying on their backs stacked up on top of themselves. I was so sure that I had Gears 3. 

I'm in my house and there's an intruder. I take my baseball bat, close the door to my room to trick him and head to a different room and wait to sneak up on him. As I'm hiding, I think that closing the door won't be enough to trick him, so I turn on my computer.

I'm looking out my window watching my neighbors and some kids try and capture squirrels in their driveway. They're timing to see who can catch one the quickest. The fastest time I see is 1:20. One of the kids sets a trap with a very long plastic tub standing on end with a string attached to the top, the other end of the string he's holding. A squirrel gets under the tub and he lets go. The tub slams down, rather slowly, but the squirrel is sitting next to the tub, as if nothing happened.

I'm driving my dads mustang, with him in it, and we are driving on a familiar road near the park. I see a motorcycle and recognize dog the bounty hunter and his wife beth driving in front of us. The road becomes two lanes, sort of, and I pass them and wave. They wave back.

I'm outside of a house, possibly in Hawaii, and chopping some wood, cedar. I remember thinking chopping cedar was difficult. I take the wood, walk into the house via the screen door and give it to the owner, who then puts it the fire place. There's a door (or a picture of a door) covered in guns. I think why would anyone have all those guns on the back of their door.

I'm with my grandparents and I find out my grandpa is getting a free jeep. We go over to look at it and I see a truck. I ask him if he was given a jeep or a truck. (there was quite a bit more that I can't remember)

[pastthetime]

XVI. Embark

Blank, hardly a thought in me. Energy sapped, though not wanting to sleep. Night is night as usual. The mocking drip sound from the gutter never seems to stop. I can't help but forget how to end my sentences. See what I did there? No? That's ok. It wasn't worth understanding. I don't want to do anything, in more ways than one. Watching my fingers type, staying at the keyboard, writing as if I were babbling on about nothing. I can't help but stare and think, or close my eyes and think, toss and turn either way my mind races about superfluous things, thoughts. No purpose, no will, no courage, I don't know what I want or if I want anything for that matter. I make myself sick just thinking about the future and how terrible it will be, how lost I will be. It's bland.

[pastthetime]

Dream 1

I'm at a large pizza parlor, trying to decide which music to play over the sound system or which movie to play over the tvs. This place reminds of a bit of Charlie's, an old pizza joint that's been closed for years, though I frequently went there when it was open. I keep flipping through the pages on the screen, pressing letters to take me to that category. Dirty Dancing is the last movie I see, but I don't pick it, nothing gets picked because I'm hungry. I walk back to behind the jukebox to look for my parents. I thought that's where they were sitting with the pizza. All I find is a heavy set, older man eating our pizza. I ask him if he's eating our pizza. He says no, these fifteen pizzas are his. I look at the pizzas but only count 4 or 5. I leave and head over to the room opposite the jukebox and find my parents already eating. My first thought is they ordered without me. I realize that they only ate half of the pizza, with a couple of full pizzas left on the table. There is a Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza, another one with green peppers, a plain cheese.

[pastthetime]

XV. Second Grader

When I was in second grade, there was a girl who moved here from Ohio. I became friends with her very quickly and, from what I remember, we were very good friends. She was very pretty, I almost couldn't believe it. Even as a second grader I had some conception of beauty. We were in the same class, I introduced her to my friends from way back in kindergarten. I remember she used to wear her hair back in a pony tail, I thought it was awfully cute.

Little did I know that she would move back to Ohio at the end of the school year. At first I wanted to write her a post card, because I liked her. I didn't know what to say at the time, or, perhaps I just didn't know how to say it. Trying to think of what I wanted to say, I gave up, and ended up not writing the postcard.

Soon after, I had a dream about her.

I was with my parents at an aquarium, submarine themed, walking on a swerving pathway. It felt like I was underwater, observing the plant and animal life, wandering around. Then I saw her, I told my parents I had to go real quick though I didn't say a reason. I left because she was leaving, I had to say good bye and giver her a kiss. I ran, running between people, to where she was but she had disappeared. I looked for her, the blur of nautical relics passing me by, but couldn't find her. I never said goodbye, nor gave her a kiss. Then I awoke and felt terrible.

[pastthetime]

XIV. Doubts

I have my doubts, quite often I have them. One of the worst doubts is about my writing. I've never been a very confident writer, I fear what I write is sub-par at best and the more I read what I write, the more discouraged I become. It might be the case that my expectations are too high, so high that my writing will never meet or exceed those expectations. Very possible, but what ever the reason, the consequence remains.

Maybe I should have been an English major and learned how to write properly, or formally, or however they want to spell it out (a vague 'they', nice). Sometimes I even read what other people write, compare it to what I write (based on style, tone, word choice etc.) and it makes me feel that much more inadequate. Judgement is a burden. It sure seems like many people can write well or, at the very least, communicate their ideas well. As always, comparison is dangerous, a poor habit of humans.

but you post anyway, why? what purpose does posting your poor writing serve, especially when you don't approve of it?

I can't give a straight answer, maybe a crooked one. I'll cite "the need to be heard" and "anonymity" for now.

Because it's sincere.

[pastthetime]

XIII. Involuntarily

Quite often I find myself laying on my bed and staring, not at anything in particular, just looking in a disinterested way, vision slightly blurry, out of focus because I'm not focusing. I've also found that I do this public, which bothers me a bit, not because I bother myself about it, but because people around me become bothered. Another instance of external affecting internal I suppose.

I find myself staring, someone walks into my stare haphazardly and, after some time they notice me staring. They must think I'm staring at them, it's only natural. So goes the narcissistic tendency of humans to induce a sort of intimacy between themselves and others, regardless of it being there or not. It might be worth noting that I was staring 'there' first, at whatever might have been in the way, but really it makes no difference. I can't foresee much comfort in telling them that. As it usually goes they notice me and stare back, I notice, because one notices such things whether they're expecting it or they catch a quick glance, and continue to stare, another case of viewing disinterestedly at something.

I'm quite adept at indirectly observing, corner of the eye viewing, catching people acting when they think nobody is looking. Slipping and looking up to see that nobody takes any "notice" of them; someone waiting at a busy intersection to cross the street and missing their cue, forcing them to wait even longer all the while showing their discomfort; retracing ones steps due to misdirection, and so on. I wouldn't be surprised if other people do this too.

If a person is caught staring they'll quickly avert their gaze once they know they've been seen, an obvious attempt to hide the obvious even though they, the starer, feels as if their eyes are quicker than those already watching. Myself, I just continue to stare, letting the person perceive my gaze, letting their minds wonder "why is he still staring?". If they stare long enough, I'll pretend as though I didn't catch them staring at me, and get back to what I was going to do before I wandered. It seems to ease their minds.

[pastthetime]

XII. Excerpt

"I've hit my peak. My mind is wrecked. I've wrecked it, ruined it beyond repair, a flickering candle that refuses to go out despite enduring countless gusts. It never stops flickering, my mind I mean. I can't blow it out and re-light it, no chance of replacing it with something better, more stable, one that acts as it should. 'As it should', but what is that? How should I act? Think? I've thought too much but about what, it's difficult to say. All I know are my thoughts, those sick, twisted, unburdened thoughts, the thoughts you know you shouldn't think but do anyway in a partially serious attitude. My mind is my world. I see everything at a whim. My head hurts, the pillow isn't as soft as it used to be. I turn the light on and sit up on my bed, arms locked on my side supporting my hunched torso. I hear a car start outside and back out of the gravel, shift, gas, fading crunches, gone. 4 am and she's now just leaving; must be his late night entertainment. I get a glass of water and chug it, coughing half of it up back into the sink. But it's my life and all I know. I can't sleep, hardly eat only because I choose not to out of contempt. For what? For the people I see. I lay back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Always lost in thought. I know too much, think to much. I know what people think, sly thoughts they wouldn't dare say, or what what a fool would say without thinking. At the risk of sounding narcissistic, my thoughts are conscious of themselves, only too conscious. It's a disgusting way to live, limiting myself to my own thoughts, as company. Everybody thinks alike. I understand that and take it further, I think and it's the same as they think. Being aware of other people, their quick glances of disgust, a slight frown of the mouth, eyes indirectly watching, everything they do speaks the volumes that they think dare not speak, those same thoughts we try to avoid but continuously creep from the back. They're forgotten almost as soon as they appear, never holding on. Those very same thoughts I ruminate over, over and over like a cow. I suppose I'm a cow chewing it's cud endlessly. If only a cow were conscious of itself!"

[pastthetime]

XI. Treachery

Sometimes I think and I feel, I mean, really feel. More than emotion, a skip of a heart beat, a lifting in my chest. Tears begin to swell but never fall. I get chills that come and go all the while making the hairs on my arm stand. I sit back and pull at my lower lip as though it'll help me. It doesn't. Biting my lip doesn't work either. All I can do is stare, lose track of time, wonder, constantly returning to my thoughts. The thinking of my thoughts. 

At one point I was on the verge of insanity. A tremendous swelling of my mind, loss of control, a smudge on a shoe that couldn't be polished away. All I could see was that spot, a dirty spot that became me, or I it. I snapped out of it quickly but the overwhelming feeling remained, an oddity from a collapsed mentality, a fear created out of reflection that yearned to remain. I felt like I should have been detained, booked in a ward for those deemed unfit for society. I was close.

This world we live in, strange, no? A complete lack of answers for the simplest of questions, though we tend to focus on the most complicated of questions and expect simple answers, our search never ceases. Hidden answers for nobody to know, or answers that aren't there which we try to force. An austere world in which we, people of habit, thrive on searching for nothing. It hurts. We can't help but do as we do, in that respect we are all the same, losing before the game has even begun. It's not a game, my apologies, but it makes no difference because the outcome was always going to be the same.

[pastthetime]

IX. White Flag

People are quite enough entertainment for me. It's painful to watch people argue who resort to illogical statements. I see this happen at the 'end' of the argument, when a person's illogical statement gives their position away. Case in point, I overheard someone say as their closing statement, "I don't want to argue about it anymore."  This was after a tediously boring argument about whether or not a person was following the rules. The details of which are not important to further my original intention.

See how easy it is to flirt about what nobody knows? 

She said it as though she'd already won, even though her arguments were terrible, even worse was her wording. Isn't that the only way to say it if you think you've won, as though any counter-argument would bask in its soundness? The only other option I can think of is that you say that statement and you know you've lost. You'd have to know you've lost. It gets to the point where arguing is futile, it becomes embarrassing, then comical, then sad.

I see how terrible they are at arguing and I can't help but laugh. People fall for tricks.

If a person says such a statement, there seems to be only two obvious and very simple options. They've won the argument or they haven't, and whichever one is the case is only their opinion. Their actual winning or losing is superfluous to the point. To say such a statement and feel like you've won is equivalent to feeling confident that your argument is stronger than the other persons. If they feel they've lost the argument and said that statement, then they're covertly conceding.

[pastthetime]

VIII. Waterfront

I'm a quiet sort of guy, by choice, it's difficult to hold my tongue in conversation so I don't speak. Most of the words I speak are categorized phrases, or even utterances, that I've learned over the years for those dull, pointless conversations we all go through, day in day out.

I was at a restaurant with my dad quite some time ago. We went to go sit in the bar and as we were sitting, for I was in the process of switching out my lop sided chair, a group men in on their lunch walked in and sat at the long table right behind me. I could tell it was lunch because one ordered an iced tea and another ordered a lemonade. No alcoholic drinks were ordered by the others and they were in work attire. I could go on, but it's irrelevant. As I was adjusting my seat one of the men in the other party pulled out his seat far enough so that it impeded where I wanted to sit. My first thought, to no surprise, was to move my chair over left and sit. I decided to regain my position, after all, I arrived there first. I suppose that's good enough. I slid my chair and knocked his, the chair he befriended by showing it how big a fish he caught. I knocked it hard enough to get his attention, said 'oops' while averting his gaze all the while moving my chair, arranging it in a nice position, and finally proceeded to sit down. I heard some words that were audible but I subconsciously stopped myself from parsing their utterance and continued to peruse the menu.

I just felt like it, no foreseeable reason, just a reaction. I did it because I didn't want to do the other option. The reason I gave isn't really a reason, just a formality, people like reasons. It's assurance.

[pastthetime]

VII. Three Quarters

I walked into a store the other day and confronted the shopkeeper about the price of his merchandise, a particular item. I asked him why the headband was more expensive here than at the other store. I asked him what the difference was, and that I had tried both but couldn't tell; a feign of ignorance as bait. No, I had not seen either. My sole intention was bent on getting him to tell the truth. He told me that the material he used was of finer quality, owing to the fact that his fabric was weaved thicker and the color was brighter.

He gave me a bull shit answer, I could tell because he made too many hand movements. They moved off and on the counter top several times, occasionally tapping his fingers on the glass in between. While he sputtered out his answer not once did he look at me. Instead, he caressed the headband; I felt as though I should have left them to their own devices.

But, I called him on it. Now he was agitated that I wasn't convinced.

I know that feeling. The audience knows you're wrong but you continue to act out your lie in vain, all the while slowly figuring out that the audience knows. Once you do the sinking feeling sets in, your innards melt, the stage collapses. A nervous shiver and the goosebumps flair up. The need to lie sets in, a cover up of the farce is the finishing blow.

He tried to correct himself about mistaking the item in his hand with a different one, one of better quality, obviously. I played along, which made him noticeably more comfortable. The game renewed itself, as it must. I accept, he continues. Now he told the truth. He equaled my stare, released the headband, and relaxed himself.

I was done. I said thank you and left.