These are the recollections i have.
I was limping, in clear bleeding pain and all these yuppy city-goers who usually don’t see past the screen in their face were beginning to notice me. but the blood that was pouring quite steadily from the backs of my kneecaps and the inside of elbows wasn’t a color these people were used to. it was this putrid yellow and green, and its texture (if one looked carefully) was thicker than average and mere human blood. luckily i was still wearing the dark blue cloth covering over my head, so they could not see that my eyes had turned over,  black as their moonless night.
Something had happened and gone awfully wrong, i now had to figure out just what that was and fix it as soon as possible.
The terror around me was becoming increasingly obvious, another dire problem that needed quick solving. These deficient beasts were going to use their handheld fragments of plastics and metals to alert their securers of my disturbing presence. Fuck. so my limping had forced itself into a faster paced forward stumble. i heard a daft woman shriek across the street. “Jesus, what the fuck is coming out of him!” Her shrill voice clapped against these elderly brick city walls. More stupid heads turned. As i broke into a weak yet full hearted sprint, the yellow and green oozes were now pouring out of my body like lemonade on a summer’s noon. I was quickly becoming drained and my skin, now a fair shade of blue was becoming more and more translucent. It was a vicious circle i had just thrust myself into; i needed to escape yet the quicker i tried, the faster i lacked the energy to do so. I was coming down right as i approached the blocks corner. Just turn it, you can make it, my body was pulsating and ready to shut off. so close, come on, i was panting like some god forsaken lost dog in the deserts of Nevada. Inches, well maybe feet, but i told myself it was inches. Inches away, come on.

Out. Like a light. Like an old ass fucking light that needed to go out long ago but was kept on because its residents died of heart attacks ironically on the same day. Out.

I’ve detected this pattern in the friendships I form. Collectively, they begin to spin in a lost and confused and hateful spiral towards an inevitable end. At the ripe age of thirteen i had sunk myself into a deep attachment. We were two bandits with minds that fought against every organized ideal, we elaborated our thoughts onto bristol paper and we sliced open our forearms to join our blood. We attempted at twisting candle flames and we created futures for ourselves and our sons as lovers. We were the epitome of crazed young kids, bent on some sort of revenge against our parents and overall we were a pair of extremely distorted and unstable minds.

I’m nothing more than a handful of overheated silly putty, placed into the lost palms of anyone who’s become a bit more bored than the average suburban denizen. I’ll sit there and i’ll be anything they want me to be. We can sit and draw pictures, and make comics about fucking up the government, and carelessly breaking laws and being strange little attention starved sucker punches. You’ll be kept busy, and i will feel as fulfilled as ever. I’m still lost and very much searching, but i’ve found someone who’s just as lostly searching as i am. So hand in hand we can traipse through parkways with wagons full of mushrooms and paint buckets and through this conjoined disillusionment i will feel so content. I’ve found my match, no matter how bad things get in life, i can struggle with someone. This feeling of friendship hits me hard, and embodies me as a whole. I become just a half, and my partner becomes my everything. Our souls float out of our human forms and they twist around each other like yin and yang koi fish swimming solemn yet silly and bliss can only come from any obstacle. I feel infinite and invincible and wholesome and found. Like fucking 12 year old christian kids who just got baptized at a summer church camp.

Its just, i thought that maybe with 3 rough as fuck years i would’ve learned at least something. Instead of putting all my hatred and mistakes on my own worn shoulders maybe i could’ve blamed my half hearted partner. Who, in the heat of the moment felt like a whole and a half hearted partner, but really they had their foot out the door throughout the entire trip. Ready to fucking dip the minute shit started going south.

Running away is a set theme for this brand of belligerent bellicose beatniks. This whole idea encases the very type of friendship i am describing. “Let’s run away.” Far from here my dear, far from the worryings and wanderings of these succulent shells of life forms that push past us in these murking school hallways. Oh, darling, we can travel the fucking world. We can hitchhike to albuquerque and back but we won’t come back; we’ll go further. Further! Lets go to Toronto, honey, let’s blast through every rave and ska dope scene we can scuttle our little bodies through. Let’s smoke at the hookah bars of New York for christ’s sake. Lets be-friend dangerous strangers and live on the couches of friends who could be enemies. Let us leave these moist and dampened depths of this burnt out southern california marine town. Lets travel freely with new names and carry only what will fit on our backs with us. We can start new lives, oh, we can become new people. We can leave behind everything we once knew and loved so dearly and become enthralled in a whole new perspective of life. We can snort cocaine with the president, we can drop mescaline in every desert we get lost in. It’ll be great my love, so beautiful. Watch, and all we have to do is get up and leave. Take my hand, let’s begin again together.
And oh, so painfully these lies and fancy words would permeate into my brain. Drilling into my thought processes as i slept, they would soak up every action i would take next. But alas, they are only mere thoughts. Mere concocted words cooked up by a bored and cracked out fucking teenager, unaware of the devastating effects they were leaving on their so called little “partner”. How idiotic of me, to think that these plans were real. How could i be so unaware of the lack of sincerity in my very own make shifted blood’s voice. I’m so stupidly naive. So willing to latch on to any stream of pretty words as long as it might mean that something, something might happen in my life. That maybe my life could have some sort of story, or meaning. Anything i could vouch for as a reason for me not to down the bottle of pills in my medicine cabinet and call it quits right now. Anything.
So yes, my underdeveloped pubescent little brain took in the lies of my dearest friend.

“End”

“We floated downwards, spiraling beautifully within an imaginary whirl pool of dead bodies and grocery bags. When i landed on both feet strongly, a few steps stumbling forward, i was in the middle of the street. The street lamps were weakening, the air was musty, the vibe was non-existent, and still I was surrounded. And my father was beside me, he took my white chalked hand, and together we strode down the neverending street.”

How my sleep had summoned such demons, i was still confoundedly unaware, pleasingly amazed, and silently terrified. I sat up that morning, and my eyes were heavier than usual. Empty bottles sunk into my blistered cement, my bronzed walls were mucking green sooner than i had hoped, my doorways had more holes than i had recalled since the evening prior. And i sat there, alone, alone once more.

Isolation has been an understatement throughout its entirety, including its very succulent birth and its very predictable and forgetful death. No man, not even Adam our First Father will have known my utter pain, for at least Adam had his God. In my now worthless pile of unwillingly immortal blood-clotted and charcoaled life, living is a pain so deeply unbearable that i’m sure i have fallen farther than Lucifer ever imagined he had. I have fallen so far deep below the bowels of light, my empty body has been thrust with such a gruesome force,  that my once human life has been smeared across every wall; a bloody, cowardly and whimpering mess spewed upon each and every man made structure.

Oh the ways i have tried to disappear. Every hour in my first year have i struggled, my muscles never growing stronger, though staying just strong enough so that i cannot and will not be able to fall. I see my bones clearly through my blanched white sheik veil, loosely scraping my sharp and jutting poisoned stones. Shackles hang with elephants that have been cursed to never rot, attached to my every joint. I live with my mouth full of blissful death, and my throat refusing to swallow it down. A genderless mass of dead flesh, incapable of emotions and beyond any form of possible coherence that might have existed before. I am unable to cry, for my body holds no liquids, no nutrients to spare and yet still i sit here and yet still i stare. Awake in my bed and i wonder once more, why.

Hanging on a cliff, i take my fathers faithful knife and i look at it with my blackened eyes, i see my writhing bloody shaking hands holding what once was my human father’s. My head tilts upward, my eyes rolling back and my eyelids concealing it, and a slow but steady smile sticks on my face, as my once shaking but now steadied hands charge the mindless weapon repeatedly into my dangling shreds of what faintly resembled a heart. As i feel it tearing apart, as it does from time to time, the knife drops onto the ground with a clatter of metal clanging, better than any music that has yet been made on this rotting planet. I am able to, for a certain second, reach my hands down into my opened dirty wounded hole of where my heart should have been. I can scramble and reach for a few moments until i find it, i grab it with a greed that no man has ever seen and i yank on it with as much strength as i have saved up for that century. And as my last ounce of blood has leaked through every damned and dirty pore i am left with, both hands now deep inside my own body, i wrench and strain and fully extract my own soul from my damned and worthless human body. This, my true yearning, my true and utterly disgustingly raw fantasy. This is only held off for the existence of these remarkable days. Christmas a thousand fold, a room full of wishes, better than fucking heaven itself. I admit, i doubt every day that my squished beetle brain is fooling me, tantalizing my whims with this unbelievable joy.

Yet the days do come, once every century or so, where my dead and thoughtless weight of a brain is able to cough up some remnants of what was. Some insignificant shreds of my forgotten and mythical life sneezed into my lap, and if i squint with my blinded eyes, and if i peek through my phantom limbs, i am able to view seconds of what life had been.

Today, as i sat up, my shredded and dehydrated spinal cord whining louder than usual, i knew. I knew that today was that day. I heard a loud THUD, followed by an empty crack. With this epiphany my body had lost all grasp with itself and had fallen forward. My head had smashed into my cement and broken vodka bottles that made up my floor. I lay there, in an utter stupor of happiness. My smile the widest it has ever been since i was imprisoned here, the blood from my freshly cracked skull running down into a puddle around my cheek, i tasted its redness, its human smell and its human flavor. And instead of the memories flashing for a second, which would have held me off for who knows how long, they poured in seeping and generously loving waves. I was rolling on my own thoughts and memories.

The purest molly of life there ever was.

My sixteenth birthday. I had a family, a mother of 52 and a father of 55. I had a small sister of 12, who could’ve passed for 14. I had a house, a beautiful foreign structure with lights from the ceiling and doorways and fuzzy floors. Light was everywhere, I was blinded by my recollection. There were rooms, ones I could see and others I just thought of. Mine had paintings, these colored splotched designs depicting filtered copies of other life. This place had endless rooms, secret tunnels. It had boxes with moving pictures. There was immeasurable warmth emanating from the walls, from the bodies of my biological fellowship, from myself. Everything was incandescent, reflecting off of each others surface and passing around some bouton of pleasantries, of warmth and sunshine and love and impossible happiness. I could taste the warmth. It was an overpowering feeling that my body had forgotten even existed and had grown normal without. Though now my limbs and torso remembered this love, and my eternal wounds that had never been closed now felt cold and iced over, perhaps purple with utter realization that there was such a feeling besides their own misery.

Light was all over. Light was in every corner, beaming from every crack in every wall. Shining from every possible crevice. Spilling out of my family’s brightened eyes, lightning shot from their fingertips, initiated by each small movement and every subtle twitch. There were plethoras of shades and multitudes of hues, light was this impossibly calm and normal happening. My memories were taking it all so casually, as if it were some endless substance. Drinking from some fountain of light, none of them could ever think of not having it. Just as I felt so strongly as to squeal out to my loving kin, to screech with my every last ping of vocal chord usage..the light became this now, unpleasantly overpowering sensation. The light was this cackling menace, a satire of my mind, a cruel red beam on the wall for animals to confuse themselves over, smashing their own beastly heads into them. I felt used,and abandoned, and i was returning to my previous and normal state, but soon i was overwhelmed by another fact.

I felt again. I was conscious. I was finally something, once more. I was this chilled being, laying on this chopped cement and sliced glass floor, bleeding profusely, and yet in utter ecstasy. Before my neck strained itself to prepare for another yelp, now one of pure stupid excitement,  it was once again silenced with another vision. I wanted to roll over and just laugh, laughing was a response i had now. But i physically was still paralyzed, my visions stronger than any REM sleep i might’ve had, it froze over my fucked up body and i lay in tingling astonishment, waiting-more than eager-to see what my mind was willing to spew for me now. I had crashed into the fire hydrant of my memory bank, and this entire summer day i am allowed to spring and frolic under its water showers, not a care before and not a care now.

alright so, there i was just,  face in the dirt and outer space on my shirt. My pentagram metals digging into my skin leaving me with some fucked up “has been” grin straight outta the looney bin. Chasing wolves with my kin finn the human and the sin from merlins magic spins left my cheeks with a glow of chagrin which is the skin tone of a cotton gins workers pectorals- win

But as i rose from the ground i reverse frowned and spat in the face of my rival. do you even lift? your whole purpose seems adrift, your wardrobe thrifted you and you were once such a swift and gifted shifter you’ve shriveled down to a now useless pile of “wow how did you just now find out how to take a bow”

i see her everyday, but seldom do i watch her. when i do i stare for days and months perhaps. i get lost in her hypnotic twists. her finger spins her shiny virgin brunette strands repeatedly and repeatedly. over and over she takes it through her fingers, through and through without seeming to understand what she is doing. her hand seems to be in a craze of twisting and knotting, and her mind is elsewhere, only noticing a faint shimmer of relaxation and ease, probing from her continual hair twirling.
perhaps i see her only because of where i sit. the back corner to the left, against the wall beside me is my only true friend. i lean on him in times of ache, and times of weary fadedness. i hide behind his invisible curtains, and tend to his air conditioning timer when the class does request a temperature change. though i love his welcoming strangely soft embraces, i sometimes wonder about the window. the window, a different brand of friendship. more of a psychedelic experience than an artificial endorphin, the window allows my mind to see things, and ponder at them for years and years without having to make my decisions about them. the window lets me sit in the tallest and cleanest of grassy fields and play out situation after situation, be it yet to come, never to come or a retake of the past. i go through these social scenes and sometimes i hate myself for it. awkwardness, a personality trait that i had discarded from myself years ago still haunts me to this very second. things i have said, things i have done, things i would take back if i could and shove them in the bowels of chris the hampton dragon; these things lurk in the window. i am better with the wall, i’ve decided. the wall does not threaten me with these dangers of reminiscence, the wall only offers warm and numbing comfort. satisfying only because i understand why.
in the same way i entrance myself in the mannerisms of miss classroom dweller, i entrance myself in the ways of miss french cigarette smolderer. she puts the sticks to her lips as if they were born there, without hesitation she intakes fully and she releases like some 30 years still have not mastered. i watch her with as little hesitation as she does it. i don’t shy away, i openly stare, be this from just absence of discomfort, or be it that sometimes i don’t realize i do it. as i sit there, wherever we are at the time; the park or the parking lot, i’ll stare up at her and watch her bilingual lips sip at this perfect instrument of laughable horrors. we even joke at times, the death that lurks within these straws of clouded haze. but i watch her, and i wonder. as the smoke seems to disappear into her lungs to settle and bully the feeble organs in her maidens body, i wonder where it goes. i truly question if the smoke will resurface once more, or if she has somehow swallowed it down and digested it the way i wish chris the hampton dragon would with my awkward despair. and just as i convince myself the lovely blood clots of dampened air are gone forever, never to return, away on some vacation in some island far from here in the parking lot or the park; it returns. it flows again, seeping from her face out of its usual entrance and exit. and it flows out almost with an abundance i didn’t remember. i feel as if sometimes, the smoke goes down and makes friends with past smoke, and they gather together and become angry. they become some political riot, raging against this system that is the french maidens anatomy, and their riots erupt more gracefully than the smoke would have hoped. they protrude from her mouth as perfected ballerinas would in the performance of their lives, formerly angered anarchists with only knowledge and means of destruction. she has the smoke under her very whims.