Status: Go and live your life 'cause I can't save it.
The City Lights
Perfect Paper Planes
13 hours ticking away until my deed is done. Its funny to think how some people are just so in love with their dismal schedules and short lives, while there's other people (like me) who are born with a foot in the grave and a shovel to spend the rest of the dreaded time digging ourselves further into the hole.
My journal was open and I was flipping though the pages to look back on all my bouts of insanity, my highs and lows, the devious little suicide plans, and all the ramblings of a mad man I'd left a trail on on the once stark white pages.
I wanted to be a phenomenon. The toast of the town in the form of perfect paper planes cast down on the oblivious city streets. These journal pages were going to live beyond me and be my last chance to wear my heart on my sleeve and set myself up for judgement. Vulnerability with walls to hide behind. Someone was going to pick up a page, pick up another, pick up another. Look for more, scavenge the streets and gutters. Put together the nonsense and try to figure me out.
Maybe they'd be scared.
Or even worse, want to help me.
I wanted a news paper article. My journal was my legacy; the front page wasn't my goal, just a small article only careful people and wandering eyes would take the time to read. Quotes from my haunted head and victimized pen. Maybe they'd find out who I was, or I'd be written into an anti-hero without a back story or current character.
These were the thoughts filling my head as I ripped the pages out one by one. Leaving the spiral tears still intact, and skipping past a few pages that I held too close to me to just cast away. The creases and muscle memory of folding all 76 planes. I flew them out one by one. Rip, crease, fold, cast, repeat. One by one, some catching the wind and others getting caught up in a downward spiral. Floors and floors up from the ground meant that the pages would certainly be well scattered.
And here I was sitting on my window sill and watching til the white planes turned to specks, and the specks turned to nothing.
This was my whole life I was casting away along with the minutes and seconds and dazes and blank stares of my 13th hour. But hey, 12 hours and some minutes are enough to let a fast life dwindle away.
"I'm sick inside without a sense of feeling." I confess with an overwhelming sense of resentment.
My journal was open and I was flipping though the pages to look back on all my bouts of insanity, my highs and lows, the devious little suicide plans, and all the ramblings of a mad man I'd left a trail on on the once stark white pages.
I wanted to be a phenomenon. The toast of the town in the form of perfect paper planes cast down on the oblivious city streets. These journal pages were going to live beyond me and be my last chance to wear my heart on my sleeve and set myself up for judgement. Vulnerability with walls to hide behind. Someone was going to pick up a page, pick up another, pick up another. Look for more, scavenge the streets and gutters. Put together the nonsense and try to figure me out.
Maybe they'd be scared.
Or even worse, want to help me.
I wanted a news paper article. My journal was my legacy; the front page wasn't my goal, just a small article only careful people and wandering eyes would take the time to read. Quotes from my haunted head and victimized pen. Maybe they'd find out who I was, or I'd be written into an anti-hero without a back story or current character.
These were the thoughts filling my head as I ripped the pages out one by one. Leaving the spiral tears still intact, and skipping past a few pages that I held too close to me to just cast away. The creases and muscle memory of folding all 76 planes. I flew them out one by one. Rip, crease, fold, cast, repeat. One by one, some catching the wind and others getting caught up in a downward spiral. Floors and floors up from the ground meant that the pages would certainly be well scattered.
And here I was sitting on my window sill and watching til the white planes turned to specks, and the specks turned to nothing.
This was my whole life I was casting away along with the minutes and seconds and dazes and blank stares of my 13th hour. But hey, 12 hours and some minutes are enough to let a fast life dwindle away.
"I'm sick inside without a sense of feeling." I confess with an overwhelming sense of resentment.
♠ ♠ ♠
The voice in my head is Edward Norton in Fight Club.