Verbal Vomit

I misspent much of my days scouring my memories for the halcyon days that never were. And in my search, I sometimes find snapshots of some kind of happiness that I most likely manufactured. Why do I partake in this stupid nostalgia searching? Perhaps it’s to convince myself I’m not hormonally imbalanced. That I’m not this depressed nutjob. It is that or revel in my anxieties as I entertain the numerous ways everything will go bad. Worrying is my luxury and privilege. But how do I flip the switch? How do I say I am no longer this person? I try. I can’t. I suspend myself, always, at this point of discomfort. It is a balancing act. I am a tightrope walker. If I fall, it’s either bliss or its torture. And inevitably I do fall.

I guess that’s where writing comes in. In this never ending cycle of picking up the pieces, writing takes it all away. Step one I vomit on a page. Then I put it away, and maybe re-read it later with the same ‘this-sucks’ mentality. But in the least, in that afterglow, I can just exist. My mind is unfettered. I am numbed, tranquilized, and wonderfully languid. And with that I will now attempt to write something.

I like sunsets because I like to imagine that everyone is relieved on their commutes home. That when they sigh, they’re thinking of something comfortable like binge-watching the Office the fifth time.  I like sunsets because I can sit at Portos and drink my coffee. I can play writer as I struggle through chapter six. The trick is they don’t have Wi-fi. Don’t get me wrong, I need to write. But there are a lot more interesting things to do than write.

I don’t write high because that’s a waste of drugs. One time I made the terrible mistake of smoking with my roommate before writing an essay. It was a great steaming pile of shit that I ultimately submitted in defeat. I couldn’t look at my professor in the eye for a while. Thinking back, I doubt he even cared. I was just another C in the room. If I ever become a father, I don’t know what to tell my kid. It’s like yeah grades are important, and you would want your kid to give a damn, but in long the run, who the fuck cares? I blame Asian parenting. It wasn’t the end of the world! Then again, I’m not rich and I didn’t graduate from Harvard.  I was just that kid caught in the middle, trying to be more than I really was. WEH.

I’m getting existential. I like to believe I’m not here just to work at some job and walk the line of ordinary -special snowflake shit. But that’s sounding pretty good with the bills coming in. Grass is greener kind of shit. I want to end this on a happier note, but I’m tired. FACT: STEAMY POTATOES > COLD POTATOES.

 

Published by

alanwrites

unadulterated writing straight from my head entiendoenglish@gmail.com