Maybe it was the very attractive waitress, or the three dollar shots, or the three dollar domestics, but I am in a state.
What is this state? That’s a dumb question. It’s a foreign and familiar drunkenness. It’s that strange feeling, that novelty I get while watching the Stamford gloom. While watching those idle ships of vanity sitting in the dead harbor.
I’m listening to those same songs again. While the songs remain the same, the feelings are different. What are those memories, those bygone and unfortunate beings, traveling in a world that never existed at all, a world I declare in prose that no one can redeem. It’s all lost and a lie and a poor and pathetic thing.
At the moment of you reading this, someone loves you, and that’s reason enough to live. As you read this, stop and take every single thing around you, breathe it in, absorb it, take every sense that you have and try to evaluate every stimuli received. These are the most important things. These are the things we can’t make even though we make it all. These are those small significant moments that make up the better part of our life. Those sweet moments of solace that we misplace for loneliness are the most important moments. Introspection is the most valuable currency because we make it ourselves.
Do not worry about mortality. It’s a waste. We are all mortal, get over it. Your life is everything and nothing and simply what you make it. If you love it, life will love you, and your blessings will be numerous. Hate it and you will receive as such.
“I take you more as a philosopher,” she said. Her voice was nothing but whiney drivel, during the day she would tell me to cut my hair. I would sit next to Sara. Did these moments happen at all, as I slept through these classes of oxygen and hydrogen and reaction? What philosophy can I produce? So many thoughts in such little time? Am I put here to do amazing things? Are you here to do the same? We and only we can decide such matters, no higher beings control it, there is no destiny, our actions are our own, and they interact with others with complications that can’t be predicted in theory or math. There is no science for the science of people.
There is a story here and I will tell it, but for now it’s a stream of consciousness. I exist to capture this moment. I once wrote in my journal, “I know why Hemingway drank.” It’s a stupid statement. I don’t know why Hemingway drank, but I know why we all drink. And here I feel like Hemingway for reasons I want to believe are true. I want that adventure and that romance and those experiences that can only be documented in the style of American post modernist prose. As I read “The Sun Also Rises,” I feel so close to him but yet distanced through ink and papers and those years. But why does it speak to me and why do I try to speak to this dead man that killed himself? Can I put myself in his shoes? With half a head due to my own actions? A morbid thought that none of you wish to read but I read it myself always. I will never be Hemingway, but I am always.
This music is not loud but it’s at full blast. The Pixies, and the Strokes, and Kid Cudi.
Asides, and goodnight world.