potusa
01-24-2004, 01:10 AM
So this is the end… My apocalyptic demise. The last straw snapping, sending an echo off the damp walls back to my glazed bloodshot eyes. I can see my own words, lines of text speeding in a haze of color splashing into the pool of my eye. The ripples of waves distorting the darkness that surrounds me. It’s cold in here. Cold and wet. Or is it just cold? My body is numb. Maybe I’m sitting in a puddle. My body is numb; numb from the pain. Maybe that’s a good thing, now I can’t feel the pain. but I can, i feel the pain where the bullet was digging into my chest, drilling into my soul, and the ache to an aching heart. So this is the end, the last chapters of a short novel with no plot twist until now, until yesterday. Yesterday the pages were ripped out of my book, torn into pieces and burned. Or maybe this is a new page, self entitled, “The End”. What about the beginning? Did that ever happen? How did it happen, and where did it go wrong? It’s so hard to think. I’m so thirsty. Maybe I should roll over into this puddle. But I might drown. Now there’s a choice, die from blood-loss or die from air-loss? I don’t know, maybe I should treasure these last moments instead, rather than dying in self-loathment. Loathment, is that a word?
Oh, right, yesterday. The day of all days so it seems. So what happened yesterday? Maybe my life happened yesterday. Maybe yesterday was “The Day,” did I miss it? No wait I remember yesterday, I smoked yesterday, and I smoked every day until today. Or was it yesterday?
That was the life I lived, a “Potheads” life. It was a strange life not a bad life but a strange one never the less. Everyday was a new adventure into my sub consciousness; new paths down the forest of my unknown. Lost in a circle and only moving motionless. That’s a “Potheads” life well it was for me. Everything seemed better when I was high. I had more grasp on reality as that may shock some of you. My attention seemed uninterrupted and my emotions left unscathed. Am I drifting? Or was this what I was talking about? Don’t you hate when a story goes nowhere except the same spot? A continuous circle just looping itself to the point of nausea. A merry go round spinning faster and faster till the point of break where you scream stop and all is silent.
Except for the slow bubbling as the air is sucked into the water. The feel of the heat from the lighter. The sight of smoke filling the chamber. The taste of an indescribable perfection, and the smell of intoxication overwhelming the senses and distractions. All is quiet. All is calm, and a cloud of pleasure hangs over us as we embrace the light. The light of the sun as the door is kicked down and a flood of black and blue fills the room, drowning us with screams and all I can think to myself is (I wish I could finish this p) as I jumped to my feet and ran to the back of the house. Ran I guess isn’t the best word I could choose for the situation, more of a frantic stumbling. Grabbing everything in my path to support my balance. Tripping over my “two left feet” and crashing through every door that stands in my way towards freedom, towards the outside. It had been a while since I had seen the sun; we tended to stay inside whenever we could. I shielded my eyes, and squinted for an escape. I jumped down the wooden porch stairs and landed hard on the cement ground. “Damn legs!” I remember shouting as I punched them a couple times. I struggled to push myself up with my arms; maybe they were weak from the punching of my legs. As I got into the shape of a person running I had jumped the fence, and I was two houses down the road. That was until I heard the shooting. I stopped. to slowly turn around and listen to the gunfire coming from the house. Five loud shots for five silent people.
Silence. That’s all there was, the sound of nothingness and I stared blankly, frozen, and scared. Until, out of focus, I saw the porch door open and I watched. I watched Tiffany come running out bleeding from the shoulder. I watched her fall down the stairs, and I watched her get shot in the back by a cop as she lay face down on the very same cement I once laid on. That’s when I could hear. I could hear the echo of my heart as it began pumping faster and faster, pulsating against my ribs, my blood boiled, my fists clenched, and I screamed, at the top of my lungs I screamed. I screamed until my throat hurt and I ran out of breath. Then I just stood there. My arms at my sides and my chin down. All I wanted to do was look at the ground, and I wondered. How many people could we bury on this planet, when will we run out of space for the them? Then I realized, Tiffany is one of those people destined to spend the rest of eternity in the ground. I didn’t care how many people we could bury. I cared how many we shouldn’t have buried.
That’s when I knew I was one of those people. Those people. That’s kind of rude of me. What do we call ourselves? The ill fated? The misfortunate ones? Or, is it a good thing I’m lying here in the street with a bullet in my chest? Maybe this will improve society’s chances, “one less druggy”, that’s what they’ll say. Wow, those are nice shoes. I wonder where he got them. As I watched the end of his foot make contact with my face. I’d like a pair like that next time I wanted to kick someone in the face because as I can feel they get the job done. I was glad I was getting this beating; maybe it would knock some sense into me. It did, I could feel the pain. So what now? Are they just gonna leave me in the street or are they gonna arrest me? Neither. Luckily I had a couple smart cops on my hands; they knew not to put the body (me) in the car because then they would have blood on the seats. So they picked me up and carried me. Don’t ask me where because I don’t know. All I saw was the sky, and all I saw of the sky were the clouds. They reminded me of how it used to be. 10 minutes ago sure, but it was still sentimental. All is quiet. All is calm, and a cloud of pleasure hangs over us as we embrace the light. Then it faded out of view as they dragged me down into the darkness. They rested me against the far wall and kneeled before me. I felt like royalty. It’s hard to remember but I think they said something about the bullet; well that’s what I’m assuming considering that’s when they decided to remove it from my chest. They wouldn’t want the bullet matching their guns now would they? So after the gut wrenching pain I endured it was over. They were gone and now I’m here.
Back where I started and none the better. I hate how time seems to stop whenever you need it to speed up and shorten the pain. To release us from our torment and save us from our damnation only to take us to a place where time has no meaning. No real existence except for the memory. The eternal image that is our one thought and that’s what I’ll remember. The clouds. My one last true escape from death, and the one last pure memory I have. I don’t want to think about my life. What kind of cliché do you take me for? Do you think I’ll quickly look back on my life and examine what I could have done differently? I can’t die like that; I need an original ending to this story.
Oh, right, yesterday. The day of all days so it seems. So what happened yesterday? Maybe my life happened yesterday. Maybe yesterday was “The Day,” did I miss it? No wait I remember yesterday, I smoked yesterday, and I smoked every day until today. Or was it yesterday?
That was the life I lived, a “Potheads” life. It was a strange life not a bad life but a strange one never the less. Everyday was a new adventure into my sub consciousness; new paths down the forest of my unknown. Lost in a circle and only moving motionless. That’s a “Potheads” life well it was for me. Everything seemed better when I was high. I had more grasp on reality as that may shock some of you. My attention seemed uninterrupted and my emotions left unscathed. Am I drifting? Or was this what I was talking about? Don’t you hate when a story goes nowhere except the same spot? A continuous circle just looping itself to the point of nausea. A merry go round spinning faster and faster till the point of break where you scream stop and all is silent.
Except for the slow bubbling as the air is sucked into the water. The feel of the heat from the lighter. The sight of smoke filling the chamber. The taste of an indescribable perfection, and the smell of intoxication overwhelming the senses and distractions. All is quiet. All is calm, and a cloud of pleasure hangs over us as we embrace the light. The light of the sun as the door is kicked down and a flood of black and blue fills the room, drowning us with screams and all I can think to myself is (I wish I could finish this p) as I jumped to my feet and ran to the back of the house. Ran I guess isn’t the best word I could choose for the situation, more of a frantic stumbling. Grabbing everything in my path to support my balance. Tripping over my “two left feet” and crashing through every door that stands in my way towards freedom, towards the outside. It had been a while since I had seen the sun; we tended to stay inside whenever we could. I shielded my eyes, and squinted for an escape. I jumped down the wooden porch stairs and landed hard on the cement ground. “Damn legs!” I remember shouting as I punched them a couple times. I struggled to push myself up with my arms; maybe they were weak from the punching of my legs. As I got into the shape of a person running I had jumped the fence, and I was two houses down the road. That was until I heard the shooting. I stopped. to slowly turn around and listen to the gunfire coming from the house. Five loud shots for five silent people.
Silence. That’s all there was, the sound of nothingness and I stared blankly, frozen, and scared. Until, out of focus, I saw the porch door open and I watched. I watched Tiffany come running out bleeding from the shoulder. I watched her fall down the stairs, and I watched her get shot in the back by a cop as she lay face down on the very same cement I once laid on. That’s when I could hear. I could hear the echo of my heart as it began pumping faster and faster, pulsating against my ribs, my blood boiled, my fists clenched, and I screamed, at the top of my lungs I screamed. I screamed until my throat hurt and I ran out of breath. Then I just stood there. My arms at my sides and my chin down. All I wanted to do was look at the ground, and I wondered. How many people could we bury on this planet, when will we run out of space for the them? Then I realized, Tiffany is one of those people destined to spend the rest of eternity in the ground. I didn’t care how many people we could bury. I cared how many we shouldn’t have buried.
That’s when I knew I was one of those people. Those people. That’s kind of rude of me. What do we call ourselves? The ill fated? The misfortunate ones? Or, is it a good thing I’m lying here in the street with a bullet in my chest? Maybe this will improve society’s chances, “one less druggy”, that’s what they’ll say. Wow, those are nice shoes. I wonder where he got them. As I watched the end of his foot make contact with my face. I’d like a pair like that next time I wanted to kick someone in the face because as I can feel they get the job done. I was glad I was getting this beating; maybe it would knock some sense into me. It did, I could feel the pain. So what now? Are they just gonna leave me in the street or are they gonna arrest me? Neither. Luckily I had a couple smart cops on my hands; they knew not to put the body (me) in the car because then they would have blood on the seats. So they picked me up and carried me. Don’t ask me where because I don’t know. All I saw was the sky, and all I saw of the sky were the clouds. They reminded me of how it used to be. 10 minutes ago sure, but it was still sentimental. All is quiet. All is calm, and a cloud of pleasure hangs over us as we embrace the light. Then it faded out of view as they dragged me down into the darkness. They rested me against the far wall and kneeled before me. I felt like royalty. It’s hard to remember but I think they said something about the bullet; well that’s what I’m assuming considering that’s when they decided to remove it from my chest. They wouldn’t want the bullet matching their guns now would they? So after the gut wrenching pain I endured it was over. They were gone and now I’m here.
Back where I started and none the better. I hate how time seems to stop whenever you need it to speed up and shorten the pain. To release us from our torment and save us from our damnation only to take us to a place where time has no meaning. No real existence except for the memory. The eternal image that is our one thought and that’s what I’ll remember. The clouds. My one last true escape from death, and the one last pure memory I have. I don’t want to think about my life. What kind of cliché do you take me for? Do you think I’ll quickly look back on my life and examine what I could have done differently? I can’t die like that; I need an original ending to this story.