I had the uncontrollable urge to write.
Note: This isn't the same as reading this in my own handwriting. I just wrote this and I'm copying it over from my notebook.
I feel weird.
I feel retarded.
And creepy.
And perplexed.
And disturbed.
And shaky.
And awkward.
And beyond compare.
Oops the pencil broke
for I pressed too hard during the stroke.
I see things from another world.
A human world...but a strange one
removed from the rest of society.
The twighlight zone.
I hear the theme music.
It reverberates through the rafters of my brain.
The pages...not worn enough. Too new, too
old, too tacky.
I feel compressed. Melting in my chair.
Or being crushed up like a garbage
compactor. Slow. Very slow is such a
process, the crunching of garbage.
I once saw that in a horror film.
Another horror is feeling after I did
tonight.
Why do I have to be so stupid?
Letting things go,
Is this a virtue, like patience?
That is certainly a good virtue, and
it takes practice.
I had the opportunity to practice today
on the expressway.
I wish everyone could be patient
with me but sometimes people
lack common courtesy.
Speaking of common courtesy...I was
just blatantly ignored. Not even dismissed
in a friendly fashion--NO. Just left
hanging for an infinite amount of
time.
Floating in the midst of TIME