Black Sky, Motherfucker
People are beautifully diverse and imaginative creatures, while love is a gorgeous and backstabbing devil. This attractive, yet demonic force is a spawn of our constantly evolving and overactive imagination. While children beg to see horror movies, only to later fear the newly created monster underneath their mattress, the love hungry mind finds nothing other than jealousy-induced headaches when their thoughts and eyelid’s interior depict their significant other lustfully filling voids brought forth by the dreamer’s newly created inadequacy. Realistically, this pessimism is (and will always be) a cure for disappointment. These are the expectations we chain to the worst-case scenarios, as we silently hope for the best resolution.
A spider was crawling on the arm of the chair as I smoked my last cigarette on the front porch. The devastation brought by September hurricanes a thousand miles away darkened our sky and cooled the air. Trivial worries and insecurities led me to an evening of seclusion and malt liquor. I brushed speckles of gray from my jeans, admired the silver ribbons dancing from my lips, and then smashed my tiny torch into the side of the ash trey. I swayed as I stood up, and then turned to find the door.
Passing out was not a difficult task. Fully clothed, I performed the sporadic bursts of quick movement, as well as the encore of a brief stagger. This recital led me to the edge of my bed. The anchors seize my eyelids. These are the velvet curtains falling with my collapse.
Light fills my hatching eyes as sunbeams bury themselves into my skin. My bed of sweat and concrete is not as comfortable as the mattress I had vanished from. The roof and shelter has been ripped from the virtual reality that substance and imagination had either produced or deprived. I see black clouds in the distance, and torn trees decorate the roads. The scenery is chaotic, as though it was the creation of a child. Construction paper and paste. Crayon-colored fires.
I watch from the newly wooded road as the city begins to vanish. The people are deconstructing the skyscrapers and businesses. The prison walls were torn down hour ago. Conservative and routine lifestyles have fallen prey to some unspeakable anarchy. For the first time, equality is existent as money is nothing more than paper. Pride is nothing more than weakness. These are all the dreams of the gods we fashioned crashing onto our homes.
Amongst the clothes she had left, I found my packed bags by the humming alarm clock. The radio was set to a frequency in between audible signals, and the rhythmic beep beeping was reoccurring despite my several slaps to the general area of the snooze button. The room was dim, and after successfully silencing the alarm, I placed a thumb tac into the top of my letter and strategically placed it within view from the doorway. The yellow cab waited in the street.
Conversation was minimal and awkward.
“Where are you going?”
“Los Angeles.”
“What for?”
“Vacation.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
I felt like I was pursuing basic conversation over a beer with an acquaintance or a distant relative. At least the awful weather and favorite sports teams had somehow dodged the generic topic selector that the driver seemed to possess. I understood that he was a complete stranger, and to expect any remarkable debates or rants would be nothing shy of ridiculous. His mundane life is probably engulfed by the back- and-forths and the stop-and-gos that gnaw at his eight to ten hours of five days out of every week. These are the unenthused employees of scripted repetition.
My eyes are dry and itchy as I stare at the rubble of the life I was a part of creating. The people have leveled the skyscrapers, businesses and prisons and begin to violently deconstruct each other. Coworkers, acquaintances, and neighbors are all tearing one another apart from the seams. Our frailty is obvious as the bones and muscles snap and rip at the pull of a loved one’s hands. People who once expressed care for each other are now disregarding the feelings that once stood tall and proudly as a priority. Barbaric mannerism has swallowed any love and decency. We are the last people in the world. Survival of the fittest. These are the rules of self-importance and evolution.
Delayed by traffic, long lines for the baggage check. I was late to the airport and missed my flight. I gathered my things, and hailed another cab. This ride was silent.
I had the driver drop me off a mile from my home. It would save me a dollar or few, and give me time to unravel my twisting thoughts. My escape had been foiled, and I wanted to march back into my battles on solid ground waving the biggest “fuck you,” flag I could fly.
Thirty yards, and I was beside the gas station I passed in the morning before work. This is the line where middle class turned into low income before turning into middle class again. I was in the clearing away from businesses and people. Just fences and graffiti.
A navy blue sedan drove from behind me, slowing when it neared. Gunshots. I felt swift pressure to my temple. I saw red and concrete. Then I saw nothing. This was my escape. This was where heaven, hell or nothing would encompass me. These are the black skies that cloud your thoughts as the velvet curtains drop, the dreams of the gods we fashioned crashing, the unenthused employees who phone for the police, and the self-important and evolving who have claimed your breath and now clutch your wallet. The world was over. I hope that she found my note.
A spider was crawling on the arm of the chair as I smoked my last cigarette on the front porch. The devastation brought by September hurricanes a thousand miles away darkened our sky and cooled the air. Trivial worries and insecurities led me to an evening of seclusion and malt liquor. I brushed speckles of gray from my jeans, admired the silver ribbons dancing from my lips, and then smashed my tiny torch into the side of the ash trey. I swayed as I stood up, and then turned to find the door.
Passing out was not a difficult task. Fully clothed, I performed the sporadic bursts of quick movement, as well as the encore of a brief stagger. This recital led me to the edge of my bed. The anchors seize my eyelids. These are the velvet curtains falling with my collapse.
Light fills my hatching eyes as sunbeams bury themselves into my skin. My bed of sweat and concrete is not as comfortable as the mattress I had vanished from. The roof and shelter has been ripped from the virtual reality that substance and imagination had either produced or deprived. I see black clouds in the distance, and torn trees decorate the roads. The scenery is chaotic, as though it was the creation of a child. Construction paper and paste. Crayon-colored fires.
I watch from the newly wooded road as the city begins to vanish. The people are deconstructing the skyscrapers and businesses. The prison walls were torn down hour ago. Conservative and routine lifestyles have fallen prey to some unspeakable anarchy. For the first time, equality is existent as money is nothing more than paper. Pride is nothing more than weakness. These are all the dreams of the gods we fashioned crashing onto our homes.
Amongst the clothes she had left, I found my packed bags by the humming alarm clock. The radio was set to a frequency in between audible signals, and the rhythmic beep beeping was reoccurring despite my several slaps to the general area of the snooze button. The room was dim, and after successfully silencing the alarm, I placed a thumb tac into the top of my letter and strategically placed it within view from the doorway. The yellow cab waited in the street.
Conversation was minimal and awkward.
“Where are you going?”
“Los Angeles.”
“What for?”
“Vacation.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
I felt like I was pursuing basic conversation over a beer with an acquaintance or a distant relative. At least the awful weather and favorite sports teams had somehow dodged the generic topic selector that the driver seemed to possess. I understood that he was a complete stranger, and to expect any remarkable debates or rants would be nothing shy of ridiculous. His mundane life is probably engulfed by the back- and-forths and the stop-and-gos that gnaw at his eight to ten hours of five days out of every week. These are the unenthused employees of scripted repetition.
My eyes are dry and itchy as I stare at the rubble of the life I was a part of creating. The people have leveled the skyscrapers, businesses and prisons and begin to violently deconstruct each other. Coworkers, acquaintances, and neighbors are all tearing one another apart from the seams. Our frailty is obvious as the bones and muscles snap and rip at the pull of a loved one’s hands. People who once expressed care for each other are now disregarding the feelings that once stood tall and proudly as a priority. Barbaric mannerism has swallowed any love and decency. We are the last people in the world. Survival of the fittest. These are the rules of self-importance and evolution.
Delayed by traffic, long lines for the baggage check. I was late to the airport and missed my flight. I gathered my things, and hailed another cab. This ride was silent.
I had the driver drop me off a mile from my home. It would save me a dollar or few, and give me time to unravel my twisting thoughts. My escape had been foiled, and I wanted to march back into my battles on solid ground waving the biggest “fuck you,” flag I could fly.
Thirty yards, and I was beside the gas station I passed in the morning before work. This is the line where middle class turned into low income before turning into middle class again. I was in the clearing away from businesses and people. Just fences and graffiti.
A navy blue sedan drove from behind me, slowing when it neared. Gunshots. I felt swift pressure to my temple. I saw red and concrete. Then I saw nothing. This was my escape. This was where heaven, hell or nothing would encompass me. These are the black skies that cloud your thoughts as the velvet curtains drop, the dreams of the gods we fashioned crashing, the unenthused employees who phone for the police, and the self-important and evolving who have claimed your breath and now clutch your wallet. The world was over. I hope that she found my note.