My mind exists in a sphere. A constant momentum of thoughts, pleasures, hatred, rejections, loves... passing, passing, passing one another. Brushing one another eternally (--a concept I still can't fathom). Constant.
Words fall between them all and then they fall on to the pages of my life. A cluster of fuck'dness and of misery... the stink of man. He who knows true misery has known true pleasure. The equation of life. Everything exists for it's opposite. Black for white, day for night and so on.
I look at the placements of all things - the visual patterns of our lives that somehow reflect our inner-workings. Something nearly everyone takes for granted.
I wasn't raised this way. I became this person over the course of years of self-inflicted seclusion and hermitting. Hiding from the world with a pen in my hand. Studying from afar, like Jane Goodall. Hiding in the shade from the sun and watching others dance inside the rays.
I've scribbled pictures on napkins, thoughts on coasters -- I've filled the margins of other's lives with my own interpretations. No space can avoid the force of the sphere that spins behind my eyes.
The world is a positive force and I am a single, negative pull.
Today, I went to a coffee shop. A blast of smell ravaged my senses as I opened the door. I felt the sting of caffeine in my eyes, in my nose and in my throat. I haven't been to a coffee shop in years. The only thing that has evolved is the way of the patrons. Now, instead of talking to one another, they hide behind anything they can. A way to somehow publicly avoid human contact.
A table of four, buried in their phones. Two strangers sitting in arm chairs staring at opposite walls. A single mother, engrossed in a laptop while her child spills juice down the side of her leg which makes it's way towards the gathering puddle on the floor. A deep sigh from the cashier as she watches the hygienic neglect.
The noise of their lives penetrates my ears and I feel distant again. Distant for living this "human-interaction" of theirs behind closed doors. When did the world become so detached from the nature of it's existence?
How do people even meet anymore? Aside from being forced to work beside one another during the hours that turn in to days that turn in to weeks that evolve in to years and so forth.
I walked towards the cashier. She was chubby and sad. Her elbows were supporting a roll of fat created by the pressure of her tight sleeves. She smiled; feigned. Her eyes were greased with makeup but her skin was smooth. Her cheeks looked as if they were harvesting nuts for the winter but in her eyes, I found warmth.
I asked for a coffee. She placed the cup beneath the spout, filled it and slid it across the counter. Another wall between human contact. I handed her money, purposely touching her hand "Sorry" she said as she cast her eyes downward.
When did we start apologizing for this? Since when did touching someone's hand while exchanging something become something worthy of an apology?
"No problem" I said.
I walked our the door and made my way towards my car. I opened my car door, climbed inside and felt the rush of relief. The absence of the immense anxiety of watching my species die fell off of me. The inside of my car welcomed the smell of the coffee (much less intense) as I headed home. The stench of ones introverted life mixed with coffee is much more pleasurable than the stench of many delusional lives over much coffee.
end note.
