Tremor of consciousness. what number doesn't matter.
I don't care how long it's been. I'm only doing this to test the hinges of my gates. Might not give. Got sick this week, felt like murder on my insides. Slow and corrosive. Finally busting out of the cracker and peppermint tea diet. It resonated this time, my reoccurring lapse of digestive normalcy. Acid. Whatever. Prescription needed. Whatever. It sounded throughout the system, ushered in the melancholia that awaited on the other side, pressing in against the screen door, hoping for this purging practice to turn over the space inside. And now that it's taken residence, I feel so transitory again. I don't know what's going on, I don't know who's going to be here tomorrow, I don't know where I'll be next week, I don't know anything at all. The movement is so palpable, it brushes here and there on my arms and legs as everything I do know passes, shifts, takes its leave for a while, resurfaces momentarily, changes clothes, changes colors, erects a statue, tears it down. It's not a pity party. Things are just changing, I've been hooked into a transition, and all I can do is watch, pay attention, endeavor to understand why. It's not monumental, either, save for the fact that I know and feel it happening. Normally these things creep up on someone unawares. So suddenly, things aren't what they used to be.
I need to finish the fish with wings character. Just another paragraph, just eight more sentences. Just clarify her already, just make her ''real". Hate. I can't stand knowing, sometimes. I enjoy experiencing that personality, that unformed character, and letting their history decide itself as I go. I'm sure that's a heinous breach of sensical character development. And why is everyone so sensical all of a sudden? Trust issues, maybe. Maybe one day I'll just sit down and write, and I won't feel such a strong desire to join creative forces with anyone else. Sometimes I seriously wonder if anyone would care to read anything I write if it didn't have to do with them, with their creations, their plots.
I interviewed for a graphic designer/art director position (that's an absolutely underfed comprehension) fifteen minutes farther away from where I work now (forty-five minutes away from where I live, without traffic). An hour, it's an hour away. I want to move anyway. But the details are goshdarn intricate as hell. Buy a townhome, everyone says, the market's great, you can afford it, you're young, it'll be wonderful. Sure. Sure. So deeply set in an adult world, I don't even know how to approach it. Can't tell my seemingly paranoid housemate, she might kick me out early. Have until August. It seems too close. The fan in my laptop grunts and coughs and groans, loudly. Disturbing. Jarring. Seven or so years old, and somehow I think it should last longer. Sledgehammer, you're old. Stop, Sheryl Crow, stop it.
Fish with wings, right. Art. Lopsided. Boy-girl. Girl-boy. For how long? Is that necessary? Reminds me of Teagan, slightly. Funny that her name is Dylan. Only Brit would know how ironic that is. But purely coincidental. Childhood. Normal! Boring. Brother Swordfish takes his own life? Sounds accurate. Mother non-existant, of course. Father majorly influential, but self-burdened, and not "present", literally unseeing. Angry girl. Fed up. Disheveled. Annoyed. In the wrong place. Doesn't fit. Too radical. Too raw. Too dramatic. Too fuck-you for this haughty hoi-polloi. Doesn't fit. Born in Avila, Spain. Moved to London. And? All the rest is transitions, no cataclysmic events, no coming-of-age necessities, the most mundane coffee table book ever. Fencing, sure, whatever. As a girl. Good at it, exceptional, champion level, but who cares? How and when? Girls? Her attractions are just that. No methodology behind it, no schema, no decisiveness, no traumatic or dramatic event in the back of a barn. Women are beautiful, and so are men, and she likes to be the knight in shining armor, she likes to be the hero, the Batman, just like her big brother. Ha, would this work? Could I just copy and paste? Maybe. Dorado says he wouldn't hold it against me. Dylan lights a cigarette and waves it on because she could care less what the bio says. Why do I care so much? Maybe I don't care at all, maybe I'm just the laziest punk ever, maybe I don't want anything I write to be shit, maybe I want to impress someone.
Cut it out. Hold on. Your best friend's perils. Leaving. Popcorn always taste stale.