Firecrackers and Math don't Mix

I've been feeling odd lately. It's not quite the urge to write, it's not quite the urge to sing. It's not quite the urge to fight, and it's definitely not the urge to bring anything worth saying to this world.

I just want to stop and listen. No, I just want to stop. Why do people ever want to listen? Nobody ever says anything worthwhile.

But I digress. I don't really want to stop. At work, I managed to fall. When I hit the ground, I stopped. Has anyone else fallen straight down from a great height? I don't mean landing on your feet and rolling, I don't mean falling on your elbow or arms and crumpling, I mean falling so that your whole body hits the ground at the same time.

That once happened to me.

I fell straight on to my back, from two or three metres. I had to stop then, and I couldn't start for another five minutes. What strikes me as strange is that it was almost the opposite of paralysis. My fingers moved, but my arms didn't, and I could barely breathe. Logically, it was just shock, but logic is rarely interesting.

At least, not your kind of interesting. Your kind of interesting is loud music, loud noise (Is there a difference?), bright lights, and fucking. Everything is about physical stimulants. Your kind of interesting embraces the human sense, exhilaration separating the mind from the body.

My kind of interesting also tries to separate the mind from the body. But I'd rather stay in my mind, than in my body. Sometimes my behaviour borders on autistic. Objects interest me more than people. I try not to make eye-contact, and I have trouble expressing myself. Honestly, I could be autistic as well. One more to the list, eh? At least it's minor. My mind functions fine now. Maybe I grew out of it.

Neither of these interesting things are very interesting. It's the connection of the mind and the body that is the best. Complete harmony, such as playing the cello or painting a picture. Any animal could play a sports game, and any computer could crunch numbers, but neither could create something of beauty like that.

But don't get me wrong, beauty is not just a wonderfully composed orchestral piece or an abstract drawing. Of course it's more than that. It's just the different kind. There's beauty in an orgasm, there's beauty in a math equation, there's beauty in a straight line, there's beauty in a broken one.

However, before I sound too idealistic and ruin my reputation, I must also add that there's an ugliness in everything. Others may have their reasons for calling something ugly, but deep down I know why there's an ugliness. This universe lacks order. To paraphrase a poem I got off a bus but can't remember, disorder is natural and order is unnatural. The obsessive-compulsive inside me strives for order, but that's impossible. Oh how I wish it was, sometimes, but sometimes not.

Tangent after tangent, I run off on. But that's okay, because who would read this? Someone I know is learning to speed read and he says he gets the facts, but what facts does this contain? None!

I will conclude by saying that no one is anyone. They can do different things and the same thing and no one would know them. Routine is inevitable, as it's inevitably broken. On that, I'll break my current routine of writing nothing and I'll start writing nothing.

Sticky fingers can still let go.

            My Head:
        The Ice Cream.
      My Life is a Cone.
     Scooped up ever so
      Unpleasantly high.
   Employed by a mother
      For not her dear
        lover, but her,
         --Nicely put--
            Clumsy, 
             Retard
              Of A
               Son  

Tell Me Something Interesting

The willows that blow under the moonlight are not green, but silver. They're spider webs with no spiders, clinging to the clouds on either side. Each night the stars stick to it like dew drops in the morning. The tire swing attached to the maple swings lonely in the wind that blows through a young man's teeth. His skin, dark from the sun, peels from his arms underneath his blanket and flakes into the wool. His eyes are lost from the lives he's lost, and they shudder as the rain starts to poor. He lives without a goal, only a starting line. There is no running in this race, for the distance covered does not depend on pace. A phone rings in the distance, but no one answers it. Maybe it's for him.