Silence is discomforting. In silence unspoken words become louder. The voices of the sane begin to creep in and dictate the truth to the non believer. The non believer chooses to fill the silence with wasted airwaves. He removes himself with noise.
As long as he can remember he listens to music. Music is a way to distract himself from the hollowness within him. The sounds of others beliefs and opinions becoming a half-baked truth of his own wretched beliefs. Pulling what he wants to hear from what is actually there to form his opinions. The man listens to the words but only hears what he wants to hear. But he can't do that in the silence.
2:24 AM. It's quite besides the clacking of a keyboard in the darkness of a messy room. His face lit up by the bright screen of his laptop the only thing keeping his sanity. He was thinking again. Thinking of a life that could have been or still could be. All he knows is the silence is home to the truth but the truth, that cold wretched truth of the silence is what frightens him. The bags under his eyes not formed from the actions of others but rather the incomplete actions of his past. A half assed existence who never lived. Who at the end of yet another tireless day lies sprawled out defeated with discomfort in his back and the pounding of his heart.
Where did it all go wrong or was it wrong from the start? The cycle lives on. It twists and bends and breaks over his fragile self-worth. What is life worth? There is nothing truly tethering him to this world but the fear of the unknown. What comes after?
Tell me what to do is apt. A half baked solution to a half baked being. Doughy, Unappetizing and incomplete. It was left out too long. Nothing to be done now but to throw it out. Throw it all out and start again. But recipes don't change their base ingredients. If that were the case this man could have been anything or anyone. No. What he has to work with isn't just mental but physical. Yet he sits in silence. He wants to speak but can't. His world feels too heavy. He feels too heavy, Just a bunch of wasted dough not worth the effort to remake.
He rots. When it started he can't remember. Just that one day he was being mixed by something and the next day he was stale. Moments peek through of sadness and perversion of his morales and mind but none of it sounds like an actual cause. Just a symptom. Yes, the dough was pulled out of the oven too soon but why? And by whom? It was obviously not complete so was the baker in a hurry? The dough was pulled out before it was burnt but could it have been forgotten all the same? Was the oven even on in the first place? Or was it cold from the very start and the dough never had a chance?
All of these analogies stir in the mind of a man at 2:38 AM. And yet it's still not focused on the core of the problem. All of this theorizing is comforting. Well if thinking as his tumultuous existence as a failed bakers dozen helps him fend off the real scary stuff, lets him decompose a little more might as well let it happen.
He cares what some people think. Almost all people really. Yet somehow thinks that while lurking from his shadow that he is still somehow better then most. A clumsy manipulative bastard. Bastard, not quite right. It might be from the blood though.
He hates pain. He gets no control from hurting himself but it does relieve the anger. He hates being angry yet with the right people he gets angry. Maybe it's jealousy. Yeah that sounds right. To take a dirty thing and smear it in your own color. To hate the thing, you see in the mirror and break it down. Yes, he hates himself.
They shouldn't be happy either. Everyone should keep to themselves So why can't they?
He sits there with a pain in his back from his awkward posture and contemplates. He's calm now. Thinking irrationally rational. Thinking whom to send a blurb of garbage to at 2:45 AM worried it might be a cry for help he needs and yet not one he deservers. His eyes well up a bit with loathing liquid but the feeling fades fast as he realizes that no. He won't use people. They won't play along anyways and he doesn't want to play or does he. So we come back to the silence.
The tearing feeling of two different personalities in the dark. The one battered hopeful who believes everything will just work out while never lifting a finger. The other being a cynical fuck who just accepts that things are never going to work out the way it is. Both contrasting yet agreeing. None of it makes sense and what exactly is this fucker doing at 2:49 AM. He was so close to pure silence. The silence of a dreamless sleep. When he does dream it is not of the nightmares he jokes about in the playpen of work. Of seeing skeletons in closets that should have been him. Yet they are still nightmares,
When he dreams, they are of dreams? Of things everyone wants in life. Things he knows he can't have. Or he can but the broken flesh of his body and mind regret to inform him of what he is. Those dreams scare him the most. Being happy scares him. What if it all suddenly vanishes? Will he then get the courage to finally become the corpse of his dreams? No. He'd still be too afraid. So here he lies with a crick in his neck at 2:54 in the morning. Just venting to an empty room waiting to be jumped out at as he types this sentence. Yet nothing comes. Narnia isn't a real place. A Pet Cemetary probably exists out there but he has no dead to raise but himself. And they come out more twisted and wicked then before. Or at least more honest about what they want.
He hides behind a disfigured smile. A half cocky grin that he impersonates that should feel offsetting yet somehow doesn't. When he smiles, others smile. But none of it reaches his eyes. They are dead. His eyes while bright blue are askew somehow. Not quite right like the rest of him. Visable or invisable to the naked eye. Time keeps moving in this silence. But it feels like a crawl now. Why does time go faster when you are on the surface but so very slow when you are in deep. Or at least deeper. If you go all the way down he assumes time just stops. So he sits here and thinks of what he might buy to end his misery. Rope comes to mind but he learned from his mistakes. He wouldn't be able to put a knife in deep enough or be able to stop himself. Traffic would be too messy for others. He for some reason would still care what others would think even if he was scattered into little bits on the road. So then he thinks… who would care? People drift apart. They always do. People change. They always do. People fall in love. They don't always but it happens. People are so weird. He's weird. What is weird? 3:02. More awake then he's been all day. But the silence. It makes him think. He doesn't want to think so he burns the hours trying to enjoy the world slowly. Living through others. He tries to go slow so that he can go fast. But time has constraints. Why is he alive? It's a mess. Tearing up again but he can't let it out. The typing might be fine but not the tears. He would rather be caught masturbating then crying. Weird right? The moments he cries though are his most vicious. If it was alligator tears then it would be easy to ignore he thinks. But they are real tears even if the mind behind them knows that the result will be the same. Thrown out yet not quite. Unmotivated. That;s the word.
A simple one. Not motivated to do anything. Stagnant water, no wonder he hates that smell. Reminds him of himself. Of a time when he trudged through that water as happy as can be. Those days are gone now. He's tired but can't sleep. He hurts. Better change positions.
He hides things. He'll mention one of the things he did but leave out the important bits. He's sitting straighter now but something changed in between the moment he did. 3:08 AM.
He tracks the time. Adds or removes it depending on the person seeing if they can spot the difference. A game he plays to see if they catch on. They don't. They don't care. Might remember the number but won't realize the significance to him. He wants to sleep but he doesn't. He wants time to move forward but doesn't want to approach the future. He doesn't know what he wants. So he thinks about ropes, knives and cars. He doesn't even think he's actually sad. It's sad. Right? 3:10 AM. He hasn't scrolled up or saved yet. Corrected a few words but mindlessly creating paragraphs with a half baked typing style. Taking parts of everything yet not being quite right. Slow. Not methodical though. Just a bunch of fingers striking keys in weird ways. Now that it's at the forefront of his mind he is no longer subconsciously breathing. Everybreath is now hardwired to his thoughts. The narrator in his head, "Howdy." Is getting a little sick of this. Meanwhie thinking should I put this out there somewhere? An old account maybe. A password that I don't remember. He's been in the third person for awhile now but knows they all should be I. What a heroine.
He's not a kid anymore. The demons are dead, just figments of imagination. No clowns in the sewers luring children to their graves in his opinion. Clowns don't scare him but people do. #:15 AM
The date seems important all of a sudden. Doesn't make sense.
Tired but awake. Wondering hmm. Wondering. No longer with something to eat his time he stays awake thinking of his other interests. All escapes. Why is he living. The clack of the keyboard feels good too me somehow, I just want to press the keys. Huh
What a methodical relaxing melody. None of it near a rhytm yet still in one. Doesn't know shit about music but oves it since it fills the silence. Loves people acting like people that don't exist while fabricating a reality and relationships that don;t exist. The half-baked product might have enjoyed earning that. He's clumsy. In a dumb way. Came up with the idea. Changed the title. Has a plan now. It's one that makes no sense and if you got to this point I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I did or didn't do for you. I shouldn't care and at times I certainly didn't but this feeling in my stomach and this feeling in my eyes just scream I'm sorry. But alligator tears right?
Is this feeling real? You know who you are and I hope you are better. It doesn't haunt me often but it does too. People move on. Wheels bend and break but it's easy to make wheels. Imperfect ones at least. Besides who like monotomy.
Anyways. I'm sorry for being a coward who can't even reach out and apologize.
My head is itchy. It scabs but doesn't actually bleed. The pain does help the anger and the dull throb after it isn't completely unpleasant. It's hidden to the world. Half baked physical appearance has the worst parts hidden by clothes but the mental stuff is hidden by a smile. The idea is coming to fruition now. Glancing in the right bottom corner of the screen. I even forgot the title. Something about a man and silence. Either way time has moved again. Burnwed another hour. 3:24AM. It's been longer though. Im disappointed. Time didn't stop. Time to share. Sweet dreams.