I didn’t want to be rich. In fact, if I ever won a lottery the money would be shipped off to relatives. I didn’t like money; It brought greed and filth. Yes, filth. Stuck-up people throwing out thousand dollar dresses after one night. Kids being raised to turn the other way when they saw a lowlife.
I was a lowlife. I liked the life. I didn’t want luxuries or food; I wanted to live.
Destruction is creativity. It was sad the world didn’t see it the same.
Maybe they needed more brainwashing.
Sometimes I wished a plague would kill the rich; maybe the starving artists would have a chance.
My best friend was a red room. I liked being alone; it made me okay with the world.
I didn’t have many friends. Most didn’t understand me. I didn’t understand me, I didn’t expect them to.
Technology isn’t something I need to have. Sort of, I need a computer. It’s how I got my words out. Paper seemed to bleak. My mind raced too fast for me to get out what I wanted. It’s not like I needed internet. Books held a magical world.
I wished I could leave. Come and go as I pleased. Life was never that easy, you always needed a destination.
I had none.
I had no home. None I wished to call home at least. I crashed in places known for the homeless. Sought enlightenment with a blazing fire by a river. It brought me peace.
I had family; they felt like strangers. I always watched them. They were social. I was alone. I wasn’t like them. I never was.
Music was mostly everything for me. I sought enlightenment through words. They never expressed how I felt. What I was. They never helped. I only became worse. In a good way. They kept me in touch with what I had wanted from life. A goal. Everything I was against.
I didn’t want fame. I wanted a relationship. I never found one worth keeping. They never lasted long. Usually after the first week or two we know they were dead end relationships.
Sometimes I wished I didn’t want a counter-part. I wished to be happy alone. I never was.
I hated commercials. Beautiful should have been left for the dead, they always were happy alone.
I liked sunsets. Those times when they take your breath away. The colors melting into one beautiful scene. They made me want to materialize into dust and float away. I could see the world like that. Yeah, it would be nice.
I didn’t like T.V. It brainwashed the youth of America to be immune to fear, and death. I didn’t like guns, violence. Two cent romance. Same problems and drama.
If you want drama visit reality.
If you want oblivion go drink some vodka.
I hated oblivion.
I wanted a dreamland. I wanted to run; I was an escapist that was shoved into a room with barred doors.
Summer was my vacation. I spent days wandering broken streets with broken windows and spray paint. The smell of rotted cotton and grease. I sat at the foot of metal dumpsters filled with paper bags and ratty clothes.
I spent evenings with friends under mainstream bridges while burning grass and escaping mid-day trains. Watching them undress, and jump into the flowing river. I just watched. I loved watching them. It was like a movie.
They crashed into each other and the rubble around the dancing flames. I watched the flames; they watched each other. I watched them too. They were in oblivion. It was great.
The nights were spent back on the streets. I liked the yellow glow of the street lights. Watching the traffic lights turn from red to green, to yellow and red again. The shadows the rain cast against windshields and windows behind vacant yellow and peach caked skies.
We walked downtown glancing into the various bars and pubs. Book stores packed with novels for two-fifty telling stories of Infamous American Serial Killers and children’s golden books with crayon drawings over the faces and animals from previous owners.
Endlessly dragging our feet across plaza’s and walking around people who staggered into each other with glazed eyes and euphoric faces. They met oblivion while we met reality.
Days repeated. I must’ve hit repeat somewhere. I was sick of life; city lights, trashy smells, traffic, the sound of parties, ratty clothing, the color black, dark apartments, spent cigarette filters, empty plastic red cups. Silence ; rebellion, hair dye containers with discolored elastic gloves, waking up the next morning, and knowing your doing it all over again the next morning. It was redundant, and I was sick.
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