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Wrighter XVIII

11/25/2017

I sit simultaneously at the edge of the universe, and trapped in a small dingy room I am saddened to see I've left my mark on. The vast nothingness of the stars and ether close enough for my fingertips to graze, in a room I'm too afraid to leave. Knowing my meaninglessness is merely reality is calming in an overwhelming sort of way. Accepting the depths of space and time running in a current around me even as I lie motionless on a stale futon. Is this, perspective? Or an excuse?

Some accumulation of hangovers so potent in their exponentially charged fold they can alter reality? If alcohol changes our brain chemistry, maybe a hangover can change our immediate surroundings. Perhaps the answer is everyone needs to get properly shitfaced all at once, and the next morning our shakes and spins will reorder the particles of the world for... peace? harmony? No, we would squander it all on some toast with butter and strong coffee.

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Wrighter XVII

11/25/2017

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Nights. Cold under stars shivering while reveling in the pure winter air. Warm a blanket pressing down on every inch of your skin, seeping in and filling to the tiniest nook with an oppressive comfort. Driving until ready to pass out an off ramp motel, bed of seat in car stopping and restlessness during sleep. Fog rolling in up the coast enveloping every couple into their own nebulous world, lonely travelers walking parting the mists to find a destination which doesn't exist until they're a few inches away. Warmth of gin and wine dancing to a song which played a long long time ago. Every repose and repast another step on a journey you're too afraid to end. Strangers sipping lattes as newspaper blows down another cookie cutter unique town, ubiquitous in its ambivalence towards true art and tortured souls. Homeless signs hanging on old fences brush up against $400 poorly painted cats gracefully akimbo in a cafe restroom. Everything new but nothing different. Like the billions of tiny rocks who dare to call themselves asphalt.

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Wrighter XVI

11/25/2017

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There is something beautiful about whiskey with an ice cube. Swirling it in your hand and seeing the ice dance with your soon to be inebriation. The cold of glass tempered by warmth of rye sliding through you after a quick kick to the throat. Life blurring to an acceptable level of impressionist, water washing over the harsh edges of assholery constantly surrounding us. Colors personalities body and fuck if I have one but soul rising above room temperature, finally knowing the meaning of comfortable. Lies and half truths and almost reality making no more impact than they should, light drops in the pond of consciousness. Becoming the koi in a winter fountain, accepting of the cold, surviving and enjoying the nibbles of food and occasional contact in a life of constant motion.
It's been a while since I could afford even the most plastic flavored of whiskey. The smell of turpentine and gasoline has a similar effect. Only now I know there's no soul to be warmed. Just a place holder, some swirl of disparate thoughts I contemplate to be more than my physical self, and more words constantly filling my head. With no release, only a stay as long as my consciousness allows. I should really find some whiskey. It's a worth a few days of expired cat food to get me by, it really is a wonderful feeling. And where to get ice?

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Wrighter XVIII

Wrighter XVII

Wrighter XVI

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