old stream of consciousness

old stream of consciousness

He always told himself, life would be so much more than it is right now, but these thoughts remain perpetually amiss. Every single thought of freedom is eventually drowned by time. They say time waits for no one. It's a sad reality, he told himself, but the sad reality was that he wouldn't do anything to help himself. Maybe in a year, when I'm off and away, then I'll be free. Funny, I heard the same thing four years ago, eight years ago. He started counting his chances in increments of four. He loved the number fourteen till he reached it, loved the number eighteen till it found him in his same purposeless thirteen year old mind, and when that number came, he loved the number twenty one, because it sounded like freedom, but when it came around, he lost interest. Everything was at the wrong time. If only he had been born four years before his interests, yet lived in the present. If his time frame of now was instead four years ago, in a body four years older. Wouldn't that be nice? He wouldn't be afraid to try new things, to talk to that pretty girl at school, to say 'no' once in a while, or to take that rock and throw it at that assholes car. But no, it was a shame he was stuck in the present, and the looming irony was that he was never living for the moment

He takes his heavy head and lifts it out of the dirt. Where is he? It must be a dream, he said, waiting for the presence of hopelessness to fade away. But it didn't nothing so out of place fades away like that. I wonder. Why, what? Well there's an idea, the imbecile says, his conscience taunts him. Where. Okay what a wonderful being you are to have the capability to have such superfluous and philosophical thinking! You are a truly, and utterly honest and amazing human being, much more than the ant swarm below us. I am. No, you aren't, silly. You're nothing.

And if I could play his conscience like a indifferent composer, I would. But I would do so much more than taunt him, because I can get away with everything right? I'm his conscience, I'm him, I'm not me, he's me so he blames himself. Take that back, he doesn't even know how to blame himself, so he lets others blame him for himself, a pleasant trade-off. Oh he's just silly, don't mind his blabbering. I suppose that gives him a colorful excuse to think whatever he pleases and get away with it. At the point where others let you think freely, they call you insane, or demented and twisted. If this was true, I suppose in a way it would be so much better to be demented or twisted amongst that flock of seagulls, the mediocre languid pile of dead Holocaust sheep.

Hey, aren't you someone special? Sarcasm feels so good on paper. He can't really move his body. Am I. What do you think you are? Anything worth anything part of any self loathing any any any? Real? Estate? You can't just throw a sentence out there and expect your conscience to understand. Hey you, you! Go to that fridge and pull out the orange juice. Okay, now drink it. Good, let the pulp drench the sides of your dirty, contaminated throat. Now put it back. Hm, this kinda feels good. He looks, but can't see anything. No, don't look or try to see. He stops. Now.. Go live.

From that day on, he was the happiest piece of flesh on the face of the crusty earth. If only we could do something like that ourselves. Just let that little voice in your head click, and off off you run away, into the beautiful, twisted and mental darkness.

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I wrote this five years ago (Jan2011, before graduating high school) and I found it revisiting some of my older writing. It's always interesting reading older stuff because it gives you a window into the person you used to be, and you can judge how much you have changed, or haven't. It was called stream of consciousness.