If you have nothing better to do, take your time reading this one. There’s a lot in there.
So there’s been an error in communication.
Understand: we were not meant to suffer yet we are suffering.
For even when I am not suffering I am suffering
For the people around me, who uncannily
Eliminate happiness while aimless, detached from any anchor
Rackety and directionless, like molecules crosswired, like
Eager loose atoms, bereft of purpose, no longer composing
Real things, no longer indivisible, as their Greek etymology
Su[f]gest. Su[f][f]est. Su[f][f]e[r].
There I go again, turning everything into suffering,
turning longer into loner
turning laughter into [s]laughter, there I go.
Be positive, they say.
Fine, fuck it, only suckers preaching, so be it. [f]in[e] [f]uck it, only [s][u]ck[e][r]s p[r]eaching, [s]o be it.
Ah, that is what they are. Sufferers. And I am the observer, observing and absorbing their
suffering, as wood absorbs fire.
Okay, Here is what I’ll do:
I will sit beneath this orange streetlamp in front of my childhood home, and I’ll imagine the smell of breaded chicken and white rice and A1 steak sauce, and I’ll feel in my heart the lightness of how our voices sounded then, and I’ll forget about suffering, blind myself to sufferers, and stare with unrelenting conviction down the twenty-six year hallway of my life, where toward the end of the opposite direction from where I’m headed there’s a closed door and a thin silver line, glowing like the edge of a sword in moonlight, breaking, just breaking, suffering, really, out from under a shut door and into the darkened world, bespeaking what’s to come, while all the smiling faces inside think it will stay this good forever.
Written at 8:55 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA, while craving my mother’s cooking and missing my childhood home, which we bought from a man who looked like Bob Saget, and whose pool was the most uncanny blue, something extraterrestrial and heavenly.