how indiscreet

i find it is often now what is said but how it is said. this isn't to say that style can hide a lack of substance, just that there is much to be said for how well-written a piece of work is. people tell me every now and then that i have a penchant for words. it is no secret that i wouldn't mind being kerouac. we share a philosophy anyway, against revision. whatever comes out first, your gut, is usually the best. besides, half of reading is in the beauty of the language, of the words, and how better to feel the author than to read all the words as they flowed from his fingertips?

regardless, nobody ever succeeded by graduating from wake taking short-story seminars. i hate being taught how to write anyway. i like just doing it. even if its not great, its what came out of me and i like it that way. suppose i will suffer through the next couple semesters anyway, failing at chemistry and hating my life for taking so many lab classes. i will stress out about med schools and likely hate it there too. throw money into this education and go into residency and get a job. work my way up to a full-fledged anesthesiolegist and make real money. maybe by then i won't hate things as much. maybe take three days a week to drive across the country on acid and write about it. who the hell knows?

this isn't the writing you wanted to hear, is it? to be sure you didn't expect me to go off and bitch and moan to the invisible population of the world about how you mistreated me, did you? i don't understand you anyway. in fact, i wish you would figure out what in the fuck is wrong inside your head and let me back in... or at least quit lying to me and let me go.

i wish there were something to say about this place. it is sanitized, suffocating to the mind. it's a fucking dorm goddammit. dirty flourescent lamps line the hallways, making everything glow a painfully pale greenish. the walls, i'm sure, are painted a new coat of rubbery white every year. the carpet is nondescript and hard, a melange of reds, pinks, blues, tans, greens, greens, greens. the overall effect is some even more nondescript color, greenish, like a puree of creamed spinach. this is going nowhere. every single bulletin board is so littered with spent staples that it seems any moment they may start leaking whatever essence a bulletin board contains. the exit sign is never lit up and sharp-looking silver sprinkler heads litter the top of the walls like splinters. trashcans sit in the corner, looking marvelously like four large, black frogs with the bags drawn over the lips and down the front while the big flap closes on top. there is not an ounce of passion in this entire building.

it's no wonder i get so anxious sometimes. there is no escape from this place. one might consider sleep, although i can only really be garuanteed a good four hours or so before my roommate barges in, eats, shaves, watches tv, rumbles around, passes gas, and does whatever it is he does that might keep me awake tonight. during the day? classes, work, progress of all sorts and kinds. i wonder what i am doing, a lot of the time, spending so much effort learning things i despise. i would much rather be writing or making music. even art, i will have to learn how to do that someday.

in the meantime i shall plot my escape in a way that you, my dear, cannot. i can see five or six shots of jose and a lovely night. it's wonderful being a lightweight, it is.

i don't know how i became what i am now. i remember, in elementary school {probably fourth or fifth grade}, standing in line for school pictures, some of the kids would try and make me cuss. it was just something i didn't do, so i played it off and refused them. some time ago, at a campsite on a river in the mountains {funny how i can't remember a single name right now}, after dark and probably during the fire, i decided to stop cussing because i realized it wasn't who i wanted to be, as a human being. these days i just say whatever the fuck i want to because it means nothing to me. words are words, they can and should be harmless unless intended to harm. language conveys meaning from one person to another, what one means is what the other should take offense at, not how he expresses it. and i'm an alcoholic... well not really but it's easy to say i am. i'm probably not terribly smart about it either, although i try a lot harder now than i used to. i think one trip is enough for anyone.

and i still need to figure out how to get past you. i care too much for my own good, always have, probably always will. this is what i get for it, too. nobody cares that you love like nobody else you know. i don't know what problems haunt your pretty mind and i don't understand how i can't help. no one can understand what isn't explained. i guess i will survive and if you ever find yourself, we will pick up the pieces and figure out why things are the way they are, although i have a feeling, kid, you will never get there... and i will always be on the outside.