Sintitulo
Published April 30th, 20071230. I turn on the light and write this. It is, for the 1st time this year, too hot to sleep. I have opened the windows, but the cold air blows from the south, into the bathroom. The air in my room is still. I have been reading A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, book club is Wednesday. It has infected me. It rambles, a stream of consciousness.
The clock said 1230. It is once again too late. Off with the light, off with my shirt - it is hot. And the room is suddenly still, the insane ramblings of someone else suddenly no longer fills my head. I sit, 27 years old, alone. Does anyone think of me at 1230am? Does anyone, right now, know I exist? Does someone out there wish they could find someone like me, but have been unable to? I have made mistakes. Am I someone’s mistake? I regret losing people - does anyone miss and regret losing me?
Still hot. The air moves the wrong way, an expected irony. I have not felt this compelled to put pen to paper in years. I don’t like AHWOSG much - it is the pretentious ramblings of a rattled 20-something. Yet it has knocked loose the pretentious ramblings of this 20-something. Whether it is transient, or permanent, I don’t know.
It is hot. My hand hurts. I used to write 100x this much at a stretch, but the skill has clearly atrophied.
Alone and 27, a silent apartment at the edge of Los Angeles. Did anyone think of me today? Is anyone but me awake?
It is hot and I need to sleep. I haven’t slept well in days, weeks, months. Not since the last end and the new beginning, a loss of irony, hypocrisy and impatience. This is intermission, but it may last longer, once again, than the feature. Sleep is a waste of time.
It is hot - where is my fan? Summer began this weekend, the pilot light on the heater is out. Now I need the fan. I have to find some shorts.
I never finished the books she loved.
I am not, contrary to appearances, obsessed with the past - I just have no memories or anecdotes of the future. I cannot relate to the me of tomorrow - he will relate to me. It is not dwelling, though it may be over-analyzing. But I don’t feel I will ever draw a conclusion, only the future me will when conclusion comes.
It is hot. I need to sleep. I need to feel, I need the future to come. I need to clean.
Is it hotter? The fan is required. I have no money, only my personality. I confuse myself. I’m hard on myself, but no one else is. Someone has to be. I live alone, there is nothing else to motivate me.
It is hot and I’m running out of paper. This sheet at least. 100am - I need to sleep. I need the fan. When I turn out the light this time - will I again hear silence? Will I again think of someone, and someone else, and wish to find yet another? Wish they’d find me?
Too hot, too late, too little paper, and too little time. What is in this book? What has it done? Why is it different? Why don’t I like it? My ramblings are no better, less read and less felt. They pale, they don’t deserve to be on paper, or read by people who will or won’t understand. I do it anyway. I am the pretentious 20-something insomniac, awake in the dead of night, too hot and wishing for a fan, a friend, a match and a flame.
I’ve found that more often than not, the things I read that I don’t like, or at least that I see great fault in, catalyze a lot more thinking and writing from me than the things that I do. I think maybe it’s that part of me that wants to make right out of the wrong that I have read. Dunno. Either way, I like your post.