#1 (permalink)

Here you can post your creative writing; songs, prose and poetry are fully accepted.

The Probability of a Raindrop

I do believe you misunderstand my existence. We are not, as you see it, a matter of probability, or a series of spontaneous speckles. I reign in a direct path, guided by purpose yet impact with intent.

How arrogant of you to believe you alone are endowed with the power of free will. How foolish of you to undermine our purpose, while devoting yourself to the divine. Few of you reign, but doing such is our being. Your existence is cluttered with confusion, ours only with conclusion.

It is a law of nature that all things possess inevitability. You must die; I must descend. Your inevitability marks the end of your path, mine the beginning. Our levels of acceptance to these inevitabilities parallel in its uninterrupted influence on our decisions.

I was born in a cloud of spores like myself from Mother Atlantic. I assimilated rather quickly compared to my siblings, feeding on vapor to help me grow. We don’t talk, there’s nothing to talk about, but we form bonds in friendship and attraction. Often, it’s those born close to us that we form an attraction to. I knew selves like mine who ventured across the clouds out of attraction for one another. You say “Love,” but it is merely nature. When bonds of attraction form, we accumulate and assimilate with one another. I abided to the laws of attraction, but maintained a conviction to practice what closely parallels your “abstinence.” I fed on vapor, and practiced acceptance of my purpose.

Attraction possesses an inevitability also – repulsion. Sometimes levels of attraction are weaker on one end than on the other, and one is left with a repelling force against gravitating attraction. Sometimes those that surround us by variables outside of control push us away completely. These varying fields of polarity generate into groups, creates diversity. These groups disperse into clouds. Diversity instigates alternate and often conflicting perspectives, and as a mass of attracted selves, consensus amongst singular sects is immediate.

Where we are released from our cell denies input of our own free will; attracting and repelling forces separate us, and the wind elemental carries us across. Wars against the laws of nature rage and ravage as conflicting clouds collide. Were it to be that we existed without innate conclusion, perhaps the wind could serve as a symbol of divine guidance that whisks you away towards a destiny aimed so high that it only provides discouragement. No. I know all influences not controlled by my own free will are inconsequential. It is not nearly as important to understand what I can’t control as it is to control my conscious.

Our innate activity is a form of reproduction; our assimilation allows us to grow until we are grown enough to burst free and make our descent. It is our purpose to have impact, but to what extent is subjective within the divisions of ourselves. Purpose is not to be confused with destiny; destiny denies Self. Our purpose is defined by the consensus of the cloud. Not without arrogance ourselves, the larger sized clouds tend to encourage destruction and erosion. Floods are often the result of a consensus run by the rational of devastating force to be used for balance.

There’s a story of a drop deluded by such a concept. It formed from a less pure source, thus poisoning’s its natural purpose. The wind carried it nowhere, it was left to brew in a kind like its own, all individually repulsing, destroying any symptoms of attraction. Miserable and immobile, this cloud festers above the source that cursed it. Fueled only by laws of repulsion, its purpose is designed to follow suit to that nature, therefore acting in a destructive manner. This drop disintegrated the water soluble homes constructed by early civilizations, influencing an evolutionary step in obtaining shelter. This is an example of influence. The flood depicted in your story of Noah is the result of an unrestrained display of power designed with purposes similar to themes of eradicating life as reminders of our dominance.

If my kind was defined by personalities rather than purpose, we’d be schizophrenics. Our destructive power is only matched by our ability to nourish life --filling bodies of water to provide for sea and wild life, replenishing the plant life, even sprinkling playfully to bring happiness in a child playing among us.

Come time to my release, I had assimilated the largest single mass in the cloud. I ripped through the powder container I was birthed from and journeyed a great descent. Those like me who surrounded me made act to quench the planet’s thirst, soaking themselves into the plants and soil; others cooled the summer heated concrete. They are the sources of life that cause a flower to bloom, or chill the hot sand between your toes. A man induced in a comatose of thought ponders my free will, ponders the probabilities surrounding my fall and my landing in coordination with the others. “They land in no distinguishable pattern, and therefore are a randomization.” The probability of the largest tear from the sky bombing his eye seduces the idea within him of nature’s free will. The man understands his existence within nature, and believes in a concept of free will himself. His understanding of my existence is now stronger. I maintain individuality while existing within a society; where I choose to fall is of my own choice, but I still fall as one of a group, a family, all individually making impact while accomplishing a similar goal – to moisten, soak, erode, flood, or nourish. As a part of nature, we all co-exist; we all share variables outside of our control like laws of attraction and inevitability, and we all share gifts of free will and purpose.






My roots have existed before time – before you. As children of nature, you are a child of mine. I give you the air you breathe. I am an observer, I see without eyes.

Oh, how I have observed.

An astonishing arrogance envelops you like an aura; can’t you see, or do you need your glasses? Did you find straightening your hair, or the afro, unique? Look beyond fashion and flesh, become aware of your life form. Those veins, coursing with blood, are of our evolutionary design.

Your behavior, indeed marked by ours, has degenerated, become wasteful and ironic. So superior, are ye, who are either lost or blind, who not only naturally consume more than they produce, but urge themselves to consume more – for less.

Where is that definitive power of logic you claim to possess? Have you sold it for safety, comfort, acceptance? It’s typical of any virus to act without thought, but you exceed the evil – reproducing without nurturing the young, acting without unison, acting against reproduction, yet still failing and failing to reproduce.


The world in which you inhabit will be destroyed as you continue to expand, empire, claim and control. In effort of selfish control, there can only be one man as the king of the hill; your fault is your pride and greed.

It is fortunate to us, that our roots be so deep, for we are more perfectly designed, maintaining consistency throughout the evolution of all things of ours. Try as you might to consume us, to manipulate our perfect design for your own benefit, our seeds spread each season.

To what malevolent monument do you aspire to? Your transgressions are transparent to us, to me. Your proposed resourceful application of my brothers, of my sisters, is a façade unseen even to you whom create it. No backyard deck, no billions of toothpicks, no sheets of paper, no shells for your writing lead pieces have proven consistently resourceful. Consumers art thou! A virus indeed!

I, my brothers and sisters too, shall remain deeply rooted here. Rootless as you are, feel free – as I know you will – to walk amongst us; your actions guide your destined doom, to which we – as we always have and always will – await with unrelenting patience.

The pet of a pet

Meow! When I am hungry, you feed me as slaves fed grapes to the Greeks; when I cry out at the door, you open it for me as though I were Queen; my contribution to you is merely coincidental through the reception of admiration, obedience, and gratification I’m provided.


Of all your man-made words, and of all your supposed revelations of life, irony is the least of your awareness. Life, yours anyway, is far too ironic to be taken seriously; and yet you try, only perpetuating the irony further. It is a force more powerful and influential than gravity. You are not simply the pet of your pets, but the pet of the world.

So pretentious you can be, reserving special status of your kind; you, too, are an animal and perhaps the most savage and least evolved of all in the Kingdom.

Blissful am I, a fine feline, whose every desire is fulfilled by my so-called owners. I lazily sleep where I please; I play when I please; I’m persistent until pet, purring as persuasion. So easily coerced, so obliviously clueless, so clumsy you are.

Meow!

I question you rhetorically -- despite your frustrated feeling of necessity to respond – as to what arrogance assumes you own anything? “Your” dwelling belongs to “your” government; “your” money belongs to banks; “your” children belong to themselves; “your” possessions belong to me. What’s left of your possessions is the possession of yourself, a greatly unsatisfactory possession. Fill that void in futility; fill it with material possessions, with convictions borrowed from another; fill it with all you can, until a childhood cliché catches up with you. Your possessions do not bring you happiness, nor fill your existential void.

Sit and lament. Pray for content. Sit and pray, as I waltz towards you – tail flailing – to fulfill my desires, while coincidentally comforting your consequences.

Meow!




You’ve spent many years inside of me; many others have as well. “If these walls could talk…” you inquisitive idiots ponder, never listening hard enough to hear. There are many things to be said, of how stupid, disgusting, and laughable you are.

Stop masturbating so much, you pervert.

My floor is a mess; clean it up.

If it doesn’t come directly out of your body, stop flushing it down my toilet.

Bones go in the garbage, not the garbage disposal.

Lime green, beige, and vomit resembling colors visually sickening. Stop making me look ugly.

Your girlfriend was right; you’re a hard-headed asshole, which explains your routine masturbation.

Teach your dog to shit outside; teach yourself to properly clean shit stains.

If you don’t want your shit stolen, lock my doors when you leave.

I don’t want to see myself in these conditions at all times; turn out a light every once and a while.

Step down, though I’d prefer if you plummeted, from that high horse you sit upon; I am not yours, I am of nature. My foundation is rock and wood, my shield is rubber and coats of color. You are not the first, nor the last, to dwell inside of me.

When I’m not watching you groan, prematurely ejaculate, and dissatisfy your woman, I contemplate collapsing and crushing you. It’s greedy, albeit destructive greed, to not only degrade and devalue yourself and the persons around you, but degrading and devaluing me – your only form of shelter and delusioned sense of safety – is unforgivable.


I hope I don’t have to have this conversation with you again; the only place for you within me is in the corner parading a dunce cap. Heed my words; listen to my breaths, my creeks, my signals of your failure to take care of me, or otherwise test my patience one too many times and burn in engulfing flames, or be smothered as the results of your poor preservation crumble on top of you and I bid farewell to your insipidity.

Who? Who!

Who? Who! Such persistence, such unfounded necessity, and such effort you make to personify all around you. You name all things, then categorize them, then name the categories. Before your birth, you were named; is it through your frustration of lacking your own name that you name others? Your names, and naming, increase the deprivation of originality further each day. How can you claim individuality while named?

Us too you name! Do not take your frustration out upon us – we were born with no names; how dare you so arrogantly place one on us and expect it to be respected. Your pets, or rather the ones you’re a pet of, are neither “Fluffy nor Spot.” Such silly labels you propose, sticking them upon all things as if the name were adhesive.

It too, the creator, you so arrogantly name. So arrogant are those that regard it with gender, as though it were as human as you. The logic of infinite regression questions who created the creator – your foolishly gender handicapped creator. “God” you say, has no creator, and yet it has gender? Are there parents, then, to Him?


Who, your inquisitively insipid kind question. Many laughs have I, and my kind, had at your expensive. We call out to you in your most vulnerable state, in your state of escape from the “oh so terrible” world you’ve yourselves manifested. Who? Who! You wake, to our amusement, with such a question boiling the glop of grey matter sitting in a skull shell.

So arrogantly you presume to be the highest life form; do you not see how we, all of we, have toyed with you? Does the puppet ever see its strings? Let the light later be shown upon you!

Questions, questions, questions, all to which you’ve found no answers, only blind acceptance. You do not know who, what, where, or why; your accepted answers are constantly challenged by contrary answers – and so we laugh; we coo; we coo “Who? Who!”

Amusing as you are, to all things, you’re beginning to bore us. We speak up now, in what – considering your history – is an enlightening revelation in futility. You must be crazy, you think, to hear and see such things! Pity is most reserved for you, who when presented truth, run and hide, scared, frightened, petrified.


There is no who, only you.

Let me shine

Let me shine some light on you, although for centuries you’ve still not seen.

There is no thing to which I’ve shone that forgets as much as you. The memories of all other things survive time; your memory forgets your keys, your anniversary, your so-called knowledge, and your faith.

Have you forgotten me? Centuries ago I was the recipient of all worship, of all praise and prayer, to which all was incinerated. Your praise, prayer, and worship, in your forgetfulness, found a new recipient. Again and again, as if your memory were that which you observe in a goldfish, forgets who to send your false and futile praise, prayer, and worship to.

You’re very essence is futility; all your actions, as result of your forgetful nature, will be forgotten and futile. I’ve shone since the beginning of your time, to all sides of Earth, for all human hours. And yet you still cannot see!


Your praise, prayer, and worship have changed – but I have not. I still remain, as I have before and will after you. As time, relative to you, passes, my patience does too pass. Angrier, hotter I burn, and will on one of your days that I provide scald you for your transgressions.

Remember me; I am your originated recipient of praise, prayer, and worship. While such things were as irrelevant as they are incinerated, you must remember me. I am your true giver – your true creator. My light shines and gives you the day, leaves and gives you your nights and your rest. I present to you all the world around you to see – and still you do not see!

I flare with contempt, soon to burst and rid the things which have still not seen my light!


Wake up! I shine for that purpose! See! See! See! See, and awaken into what you’d consider enlightenment, although no transcendence is had – you’ll simply open your eyes for the first time in centuries.







You owe me rent; it’s 5,000 years overdue. I, your mother, am disappointed; my unconditional love is no longer yours. I give you home, resources, entertainment, philosophy, life, food, the air you breathe, and in return? What have you repaid me?


You are an infinitely selfish kind, taking and consuming all I have given provided, and regurgitated it into desecration. A virus, truly, you show yourselves to be – and an ironically ignorant one at that!


Do you think I am your land? What insolence can provide has remained a constant surprise. You claim my bodies of land, stab my surface with your flag, name me and divide me. You wage war over me, conquer me, reclaim me, dispute over me, and then – just as a civilized and isolated kind of yours begins to flourish – you sail across my waters, to which you’ve also claimed and named, and conquer me again.

Just as you do not see the shining light, just as you do not understand the infinite life forms elder than you, you do not heed my warnings. I punish thee, with violent winds, swarming waters, explosions of fire, and it falls on deafer ears than the deaf.

Laughable and repenting are those less ignorant yet still misunderstanding few of your kind who make effort to “save me.” Blind selfishness is selfishness still; do you truly believe you’re saving anything but yourselves?

I will not die; I will make no effort to save you any longer; I rejoice on the day you extinguish yourselves. You can replenish my trees to flourish in futility. Your damage, your industrialized damage so foolishly proposed as great inventing, destroys more of what I give. For centuries I have shielded you from the elements outside of me; your advancements have diminished that shield, another motherly thing I’ve provided, and soon the repercussions will allow me to reclaim what is mine.


The vain attempts at preserving your habitat are the quintessential white blood cells; and yet the virus fights and continues to destroy with no deterrent! How selfish you are to believe you’re saving me; you’re saving yourselves, and are too proud and too stupid to admit to it. On the day Sun shines light, and I see you no more, I will not be dead, only you.

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#2 (permalink)

By FARRR my best ever.


I spend a lot of time thinking about the end of the world. I figure, what with global warming, Islamic extremists, and the ever-increasing threat of gay marriage, the rapture is due any moment now. I reckon I should be prepared, just in case the day of reckoning is soon upon us.

The perfect scenario, in the event of the Apocalypse, requires notice. A sudden, devastating attack leaves no room for enjoyment. It is with this principle that I, your attractive narrator, will explicate my vision.
It is one of those summer nights when the world is almost standing still. Love blooms without consequence, and young lovers can be seen walking hand in hand across the island of Manhattan. The time is seven pm.

On television, the President abruptly addresses the nation. “My fellow Americans,” he speaks somberly, “a grave day is upon us. Our worst fear has been realized; our enemies abroad have waged an attack on our great nation.” The details are unimportant, and the body of the speech will be omitted. Almost in tears, he finishes, “I ask you to remain calm, and pray to God for your salvation. God bless you, and God bless America.” At this awesome moment, the nation realizes that there are only three hours left for life on the planet.

Most people, in this situation, get to their knees and pray. It would be difficult to look death in the face and not try one last time to save oneself. Not for me. As a student of philosophy, I refuse to believe in that stuff. I have read Pascal a dozen times; he says it is logically a better wager to believe in God, just in case he exists. But, as any undergraduate would tell you, there are an infinite number of possible Gods. It would be humiliating to recite a Hail Mary on this, the Day of Judgment, just to find out you should have been performing Salah. It is for this reason that I choose the best possible god; I profess my faith to Dionysus, the God of madness.

I live in New York City, so naturally I have a lot to work with. I start my journey with a walk to the 50’s. There is a fine cigar store on Madison Avenue that makes a wonderful first stop.

As I walk up Madison I see wonderful sights. I see flocks of Christians yelling at flocks of Jews. I scream to them, “Get over it,” but they don’t listen. I also see the streets lined with flaming cars and young people running with televisions and computers. Finally I arrive at the cigar store, which is deserted and dark. I pick up a trashcan and hurl it through the window. After successfully looting the place, I light my first cigar with the hundred-dollar bill that I stole from the register “just for fun.” The time is eight pm.

My next quest is to the Museum of Modern Art. I know that the skeptical among my readers will ask, “why not the Metropolitan Museum of Art?” The stuffy art in that institution is dead. Modern art is the only living form, and that is why I head west toward 6th Avenue. As I arrive, I see many intellectuals slowly taking their last look at the great works around them (as intellectuals, they have denied the existence of God, and thus have nothing to pray to). Unfortunately for them, I am not here to be passive. My first attack is on Cézanne. I spit on The Bather. Then that scam Starry Night gets ripped off of the wall and my well-polished Johnston & Murphy goes through its magnificent blues and yellows. There is a three-panel Monet entitled Reflections of Clouds on the Water Lily Pond. After a moment of reflection, I use the frame from the Van Gogh painting to bash each panel into bits.

When I approach the Jackson Pollock room, I take in the anger with which he painted. This anger is unleashed upon his drip paintings, which I rip off the wall and throw onto the floor. When they are all piled together, I stomp and jump and kick until Jackson Pollock is just a memory. With my anger released, I go to Salvadore Dali’s The Persistence of Memory. Suffice it to say, it persists no more. I go easy on Matisse, only lighting his paintings on fire as I walk by.

Finally I arrive at the true catalyst of my desire. There is a room with Roy Lichtenstein’s Drowning Girl and all thirty-two of Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Cans. I test Lichtenstein’s painting, which features a young girl saying, “I don’t care! I’d rather sink -- than call Brad for help!” by carrying it to the bathroom and dousing it in the sink. Sure enough, she did not call for Brad. Now to the Warhols. As I carefully remove them, I toss the top row, Tomato through Beef Broth, against the opposite wall, which holds Gold Marilyn Monroe; unlike their aluminum counterparts, these cans cannot withstand the impact. The second row, Chicken Gumbo through Scotch Broth, get slashed with a pocketknife. I stack the final two rows, Bean with Bacon through Minestrone and Chicken Vegetable through Turkey Vegetable, into a kindling structure and use the remains of Cream of Asparagus and Pepper Pot as initial tinder to begin a bonfire. With this inferno I light my second cigar. At this point the alarms start blaring, and I figure it is about time to get out of there. On my way out I grab Panel for Edwin R. Campbell 1, 2, and 3, by Vasily Kandinsky, to bring with me for the rest of my way. I save Kandinsky because his art is, at least, something I can relate to and understand. The time is nine pm.

In my final hour I smoke my cigar and walk to the 59th Street Bridge. It was mentioned in that great Simon and Garfunkel song (Feeling Groovy), and also it acted as backdrop to a memorable scene in Manhattan; it is for these pop-cultural references that I decide to spend my last moments on Earth there. Thankfully, this is an entertaining sight, not only for its beauty but also for the thousands of jumpers plunging to their deaths. Desperate people, both young and old, are hurling themselves into the East River for one ultimate moment of exhilaration. Amid the screaming a voice is heard bellowing, “You bastards aren’t going to get this son of a bitch.” Inevitably, a splash followed. Tired of holding the three Kandinskys, I hurl them into the river, too. I continue smoking my cigar and watching the world self-destruct. The time is nine thirty pm.

I have thus far painted a picture without melody, but music has, in fact, been reserved for the very final moments. I remove my clothes and belt out a spirited rendition of Cole Porter’s “Let’s Misbehave.” We’re all alone. No chaperone can get our number. The world’s in slumber; let’s misbehave. There’s something wild about you child that’s so contagious. Let’s be outrageous; let’s misbehave. When Adam won Eve’s hand, he wouldn’t stand for teasin.’ He didn’t care about those apples out of season. They say the spring means just one thing to little lovers. We’re not abovers; let’s misbehave! For the instrumental parts, I whistle. I am actually a terrific whistler. The time is nine forty-five pm.

As I light my third and final cigar, I realize that my throat has been badly damaged. I hold back the coughs, however, so as to not spoil my evening. As I stare off into the night sky, I think back on my life of debauchery. “I sure have been quite a bad-ass,” I think to myself. Just as I am accepting the fatality of the situation, I see a rocket ship shooting above the bridge. I wave my cigar to the lucky men who occupy that fleeting vessel of salvation. As I replace the cigar into my chapped lips, I notice the ship seems to be turning around. Wait, it couldn’t be. Could it? It seems to be turning around and coming straight towards me. It is! It is coming towards me!

The rocket ship lands on 58th street and the hydraulic door hinges open with a “shhhhh” sound. Standing in the entryway is the President of the United States. “Reid,” he says, “why don’t you join us? There’s enough room and supplies, and all the great American minds are here; Bob Dylan, Steve Jobs, Woody Allen, Bill Clinton, Paul Simon, Stephen Colbert, Stan Lee, the guys who made YouTube…even J.D. Salinger managed to make it!”

“I guess I’ll come.” I responded, “but one thing; are there any women?”

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#3 (permalink)

For some reason it wont let me edit my post.
So sorry, Im just gonna have to make a new one.

The story above is called "Let's Misbehave". I wrote this for a Final English Project. (Caps for IMPORTANCE) We had to write a short story, so I decided to write a story in the first person. However I didnt want it to be an ordinary story of far away lands, hobbits, high school or anything that has been used before. So this story is told in the first person of a twentey or so year old who lives in New York City.

I had alot of help from my teacher and family to make this, enjoy.

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#4 (permalink)

Maybe I'll put poetry I have written here, but I don't want to look like I suck at writing.

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#5 (permalink)

The whole point of writing is to express how you feel. Every writer makes mistakes. Thats why books are edited many times before they are published. Think about it, ever story starts with a rough draft on a computer, or on a napkin in a cafe. No matter how "Bad" you think it is, somebody who reads it could think it is Amazing!

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#6 (permalink)

Very true.

I published my first book in late September. I got my first printed copy, which I was supposed to read through and look for mistakes and changes I want to make, and then approve it. The book is riddled with mistakes (not spelling/grammar, maybe one or two, but little things only I would notice). I made the choice not to edit it, because it would cost me another $200, and I'd already spent $430 (not counting the $400 I spent buying 50 copies of my own book) and really didn't care to. I have seen mistakes in other classic pieces of literature, so I don't feel bad about it.

Also, when I first edited my book, when I got done I got REALLY depressed; why? because I found out that I didn't like anything about it. I did another editing job and found ways to satisfy myself to a sense of contentment with it, then published it. Everyone, thus far, that's read it has regarded it as amazing and I haven't recieved any negative comments on it.

I wouldn't know. I haven't read it.

I enjoyed that short story, the premise was great and it was very fluent. It's a damn good thing Bob Dylan made that flight!

I'm going to double post and post mine I wrote two days ago in about an hour and a half.

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#7 (permalink)

Yo, I wrote a short story today. Check it out, comments and critcisms appreciated.

“I, if you asked another, would be highly regarded as a truly selfless person. I am the kind of guy who is always there for somebody else, to listen, to console, to help within and in times beyond the extent of my capabilities. I always put others’ needs of relief, pleasure, and hope above my own. The priorities of others are my top priority. The happiness of others made me happy, and as it would later be revealed to me, that virtue denies all, or any, praise I’m provided.

I knew a man, his actions a mirrored image of my own, who by any regard appeared as selfless as I. However, through him my selflessness was transparent; I am not as selfless as he . no one is.

We lived under the overpass of I-45 and 242, our lives much the same. In the first decade of the 21st century, we’d both donated, not abandoned, our possessions, save a pair of clothes. We’d abandoned the system, or perhaps the other way around, abandoned our 9-digit number which identified us as the tattoos had identified the Jews. I am not a number; I am not my doctorate in philosophy from Berkeley; I am neither a reflection nor representation of society and community. I am human.

He was a self-educated man; his entire home, when he still lived in it, had books stacked to the ceiling with books. He never spoke about what he used to do for work, in fact he never spoke about himself at all. If you were to ask what how he was or anything about his background, he’d cunningly and quickly repel the conversation back your way. In this sense, he was a very good conversationalist, because people love to talk about themselves . that’s something you don’t learn in books. It was very difficult to get much any information from him about himself; he was a very well educated man, and as such could hold an intellectual conversation with anyone. He knew science; he knew history; he knew psychology; he knew anthropology; he knew philosophy; it were as if he spent his life, from birth, getting doctorates in every field of work.

He was a real life philosopher, a true sophist; our conversations in regards to metaphysics, epistemology, and ethics often intertwined, drawing correlations and applying one field into the next. What is truth transgressed to what is real; what is good translated into what can be known, learned, and how the reality of those things prove irrelevant while remaining the most relevant existing element. Our conversations brought me great satisfaction, having another intellectual absentee to converse with what a rarity.

“Good morning, Guy.” He hadn’t slept; I don’t think he ever does.

“Good morning, Sir.” I never knew his name. When I first asked him his name, he told me he’d forgotten, and added that it wasn’t relevant anyway. I think it was really just another discarded piece of identity, but over the years perhaps it were possible to truly forget one’s own name.

One other gentleman dwelled under the overpass with us, Robert, but was referred to as Drunk Bob; he was a consistently belligerent, drunken individual. He sold his blanket for a fifth of scotch, thinking it’d provide the same warmth. Now he’s cradled together, his knees buried in his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his legs.

“I’m d-d-dying.” He stuttered, the impediment caused by the chattering of his teeth.

“We’re all dying.”

“I’m dying now.” Drunk Bob replied, annoyed.

“We’re all dying now. Here.” He handed Drunken Bob his only blanket.

“Why’d you do that?” I asked.

“For some, life is a race to die; while Robert over there might not want to suffer this lifelong endeavor any longer, he sure doesn’t want to die cold.”

Sir was unusual like that. He spoke always in an incredibly pessimistic tone; the happiness he brought others didn’t contribute to his collective happiness like mine did. He was a profound giver on the surface, balancing on the edge of the martyr cliff underneath the surface, and a devastatingly depressed self destructor at the core. He used to say “The only thing that keeps me from walking out in front of an 18 wheeler is the delay of cargo I’d cause. I don’t want to trouble anybody.”

I’m what can be translated into a selfishly selfless person. My actions are selfless to the extent that they’re for others before myself, but ultimately the actions I make are done in accordance with the psychological “do good feel good syndrome.” I make others happy to make myself happy. I maintain, as well, a Self. I have a name, convictions, possessions I’m unable to sacrifice, happiness, and a valued life.

To have no Self, as Sir did, is uncontestable selflessness. No identity, no possessions, no use to himself . only to others, no life internally valued. No Self.

I woke up the next morning to the passing cars, blaring horns, and even louder blaring music of men and women venturing to another work day, delusioned that their benefits are greater than their loss. I rose, as I always did, and felt a missing presence. I saw Bob, lying cold and dead, blanketless with an empty bottle clutched in his cold, dead fingers. He must’ve sold the blanket, again. Sir was gone, without a word, without a sound, and without a note.

I never discovered what happened to him; he was a nomad, but it was customary when departing from one location to another to leave something behind. I suppose he ventured away to die quietly, leaving nothing as to leave no despair of his disappearance. He never wanted to trouble anyone.

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#8 (permalink)

STFU nub!

I'll post later.

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