sometimes, when i’m using microsoft word, i have a hard time doing ctrl+i instead of <i></i>, or spacebar instead of . that, however, is the least of my worries when writing an eight-page paper on shakespeare’s <i>a midsummer night’s dream</i>.
i never liked the beatles until very, very recently. how odd, then, that for weeks now my page titles have been quotes from revolver. goodbye, george harrison.
when i got home last night, it was fifty-five degrees in my apartment. i could see my breath, and feel the ice floor through the carpet and my thin socks. it’s cold.
as though i’m being asked to pry off chunks of my unspent youth, hurl them into old age, and watch as they fizzle away, dissolved in early nights, television sitcoms, balanced meals, and accountability.
my entire body feels on the inside like it’s made of static. of the exact moment when a videotape gets sick of pausing and stops itself, filling a room with the jarring scream of tiny, scrambling insect particles, electrically charged. of the way grass looks as it flagellates in the wind, if you blur your vision just enough. of the sustained crunch of ground glass underneath a boot heel. of the roar of cold, dead air in a dark room when sleep won’t come. of rain striking the windshield in torrents as you sit inside the car, watching thousands of drops fall shrieking to a flat, wet death, inches from your face.
just underneath my skin, i am electricity.
“mr. porter tried to walk quickly but he seemed to be walking through a tide. he would never arrive anywhere. his shoes were ruined, his shirt was ruined, everything was washing away. the rain was flooding him, passing through him and coming out the other side. everything was coming undone. black drops fell from his watchband onto his hands, blue drops fell from his shirtsleeves onto his arms. have i wasted my life?
“his shirt was running down in blue streams onto his pants, his pants were trickling onto his shoes, his shoes were flowing away in inky streams. everything was washing away. his cheeks were running, his eyeglasses were spilling down in bright crystal drops, flesh-colored streams fell from his shining fingertips, he was dissolving in the rain. in ripples of blue and flesh and tan and black he flowed into the shine of the tar. for a moment on an empty parking lot a bright puddle gleamed, but then the rain washed it away.“
me on tumblr i could make that
