The Void - part 2

My phone buzzes as I entire the shop. I nod at Mike as I reach in my pocket. He flashes a weary smile at me and then returns to the mail. I look down and read the message on the screen.

“can yu call me? i really need to talk to you”

I put the phone back into my pocket.

Mike is finished with the mail. He walks over to me. 

“What’s up?”

I shrug and pour myself a cup of coffee. 

“Not much.” 

“I guess it’s still raining.” I look down and realize I am soaked to the bone. My body seizes up and I start to shiver. 

“Do you want to hang out in the back until you dry off? It’s probably going to be a slow day, what with the weather.” I nod and walk to the back.

“Thanks, man.”

The office is poorly lit. A cluttered desk sits in the middle, covered in CDs, cassettes and miscellaneous promotional materials for bands no one knows and everyone will soon forget. I stand in the doorway and sip the coffee. The chair is old and made of leather. I don’t want to ruin it, so I sit on the carpet and stare at the wall. Kurt Cobain plainly stares back from a faded poster.  

How did he do it?

He channeled his angst, his loneliness, his despair and made something of himself. He touched the lives of millions.

Then he killed himself.

I’ve thought about suicide. Who hasn’t? But what a dull way to go. After you do it, it’s just… done. I’ve never wanted it end; I only want it to get better.

I take my phone out of my pocket and read the text again. The number isn’t saved, but it’s familiar. No matter how many times I delete it, the same fucking number always seems to come back. 

I know I complain about how empty my life is. I know I come off like a spoiled, upper middle-class white kid that manufactered the boredom of everyday life into an angst that is in no way unique.

But I am a sum of the pieces of my past. 

The pieces of a broken heart, of a fractured soul, do not disappear. They sit inside until they are stirred. Then, they shatter into smaller chunks with sharper edges. And every time I respond, I’m raising the hammer.

I push down on her number and dial. 

One ring.

Two. 

Three.

Four.

Five rings.

Six.

“Hi, this is Carly. Can’t talk now, but leave one and I’ll get back to you. MAYBE!”

I let go of the phone and lean my head against the floor. The hammer falls again.

The Void - part 1

I am aware that I am drifting through my life. Like an astronaut, sent out into space to fix… something. I got here under the guise of good intentions, but after an extended amount of time in nothing, you become nothing. 

My life used to be defined by schizophrenia of youth. Every night, every morning something new. I began to judge the quality of my life on its unpredictability. There was nothing more exciting than going to bed thinking that tomorrow, I was probably going to experience something completely new.

Then I wake up.

Now I wake up.

It’s April or October or maybe April. I don’t know exactly because it doesn’t matter. When every morning is the same, does it really matter? I wake up facing the same window that I have for the past 2 years. Sometimes it’s open, sometimes it’s closed. It doesn’t matter. 

The clock next to me whirs loudly for maybe the 30th time that morning. My hand gruffly works the buttons, imploring it to stop. I am not tired. I haven’t needed an alarm for almost 5 years. It’s there to remind me of my harsh reality. Instead of slowly slipping out my dreams into the day, I am bombarded with callous tones that taunt me. Rec time is over. Time to return to solitary confinement.

I rarely save myself enough time to enjoy the morning. My routine mimics that of an animal’s during hibernation: do the barest minimum that allows the body to survive. I find myself in the shower scrubbing the same patch of skin that never seems to heal. My mangy hair hangs in my eyes. I wash and rinse and am now walking to work. 

Did I have breakfast?

Doesn’t matter. 

her gaze intensified as her tone turned harsh.

“there is no you without me,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

STICKS AND STONES TEN YEAR ANNIVERSARY

pupfresh:

New Found Glory’s Sticks And Stones turns 10 today.

Read More

dope

You’re my kind of person

if you have multiple copies of the same song in iTunes on that off chance you’ll hear “Rock with You” twice in a row on random.

A peek inside the creative process

- those that write as a form of catharsis are lucky. it’s easily the most frustrating part of my day* .

- i really enjoy thinking and plotting out a story in my head, but putting on paper or on screen is a hassle that I haven’t quite gotten over. i think it would be a lot different if I had any kind of legitimate talent.

- dialogue is, without a doubt, the hardest thing to write. that would actually be a good barometer for artificial intelligence: once a computer can write thoughtful and realistic dialogue between two compelling character, the world is doomed. 

- have you ever noticed how all of my sentences look exactly the same? example: something something something something, something something something. it’s an issue i’m trying to fix, but i don’t really know how or where to start.**

- writing for a show like SNL or 30 rock is my dream. it amazes me that people can write stuff that moves so quickly from scene to scene and

- the title of this post has been misleading up to this point. my creative process: before falling asleep, i think of scenarios or characters. i use what i come up with as a basis for a story. i plot that story out each night until i fall asleep. the next night, i pick it up from the last thing i remember from the night before.*** Pretty simple.

- i imagine the trait most successful writers share is high self-awareness. I know what I want to say, but that only gets me so far. putting what you think or feel into words is ridiculously challenging. It’s very similar to translating from one language to another: the message may stay mostly intact, but often the entirety of the message suffers.

- the fact that i haven’t been a student in almost 2 years is becoming increasingly apparent. Lately I’ve been forgetting simple grammar rules and my spelling is getting much worse.

- this post is simply to get me writing again. it actually felt kind of nice to out words on a screen.

* - or week or month (mostly month)

** - there it is again

*** - My senior year of college, I actually made a story from start to finish that (I thought) was pretty damn strong. I tried to write it out and, wouldn’t you know, it ended up sucking ass.

new shit coming tomorrow

maybe. we’ll see. it is friday and who works on friday?

real life

*raining hard*

boy - “what are you so afraid of?”

girl - “nothing. let’s go for it.”

boy - “never mind.”

college was cray

i mean, like, for real.

bang bang

there’s no better band to write to than the beatles. they’re a constant reminder of the unlimited possibilities of imagination and creation.