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The Living Chronicles

T

The Cheshire Cat

Planetoid
Joined
Dec 22, 2009
My first thought when I looked at myself in the mirror this morning was:

I need to bathe.

A point true enough. Greasy hair stuck up in all directions and I didn't need someone else to tell me I smelled. I needed to shave too. Fresh new stubble had sprouted all over my chin and upper lip. It never grew where I wanted it to grow. But why? It was Christmas morning, I wasn't going anywhere. Why bathe? Why shave? Especially when there's no one to see you. No one to greet you in the morning, just you in your empty bed. Bathe. I never did anything like that over the holidays, and so far the holidays haven't cared, and as long as they don't, neither will I. Breakfast once again was cereal. Always cereal. When I die it'll probably cereal they'll serve at the hospital. I stayed in my jammies the rest of the morning, watched TV then surfed the web. Maybe should've gone out, now that I think about it, but all the stores and stuff were closed. Take a walk? Too cold. Call up some friends? They've got Christmas to spend with their own.

If there's a rock bottom...I think I hit it.
 
I managed to make myself move later that afternoon. The only movement throughout the house was me as I zombie-walked out of my room. It was erie, being the only one. It always is. Stepping outside was scarier. What one would believe is that on Christmas day, EVERYTHING is happy, joyful and loving. Outside was dead. The air was still, the birds were quiet and nothing stirred. Not even a mouse ;)

I had chickens in my backyard, they've been there for years, and when I saw them, usually they were running about, eating whatever they stepped on, whether it be grass, bugs or their own shit. I've never seen anything look so lifeless. They bunched in little groups with their necks tucked into their feathery bodies, unmoving. They looked like they had given up hope before anything had come. Seeing them dragged down my day further, I wanted to go back inside, curl up in bed and cry. Cry, fall asleep and not wake up. But what would that accomplish? I couldn't think of a valid reason, but I did know it'd make me feel a hell lot better than I was feeling right now. Instead, I walked back inside, took the shower I so badly needed, got dressed and drove the trash out in my car. It wouldn't count as much, but it did liven me up for a little bit longer.

I hadn't head banged to the radio in a loooong time...
 
A new day usually is something to look forward to. I woke up too early to my great dismay. I spent the next 3 or 4 hours staring at the ceiling. The electric heater in my room popped and crackled every few minutes and I tossed away any hope of going back to sleep again. My left forearm stung from last night. The blood had dried and crusted and when I switched on my lamp I could see where it had left little stains on my sheets. I don't do it for attention. I don't do it out of self-pity. What does one do when time has passed from their meal? They empty themselves, flush, wash their hands and move on. I've found that doing this is the same concept. Let it build up, the anger, the sadness, all the emotions that wear you down, pull them to you and let it grow. Then, when the time comes, take a shit.

This is my shit.

I wore a long sleeve shirt to bed so that I wouldn't have to wake up and that be the first thing I see. It was 6:00. I had to go to church in 2 hours. I got up and began to get dressed, pulling on the shirt I got for Christmas. It was nice, I liked the look, I liked the feel, and I allowed myself a smile when I unbuttoned the topmost button to show a little of my chest. My hair was a mess as usual, and no amount of combing put it into any recognizable order. I satisfied myself with catching almost all but some stray clumps that poked up like fence posts with no wire. It was a silent drive, quiet greetings, and an even quieter sermon. I didn't fully pay attention, stammered my way through the Pass Over prayer for the bread, signifying the body of Jesus Christ. I was a sham. A joke, living double lives. I didn't stay when the service was done, I nodded to all I passed, walked quickly into the cold sun, started my car and drove away.

It was a silent drive, quiet goodbyes and an even quieter existence.

God help me.
 
Breakfast was cookie and a Coke. Better than cereal, I suppose, but I'm sure somewhere out there it's written that you'll have your eyes gouged out by demons if you drink Coke for breakfast. Unhealthy and the like. Well, I'm still standing, and still hungry because I only ate one cookie.

Hooray for cookies.

I got to thinking about her again. Generically it always hurts to think about her. Obviously it always hurts to think about her. You can't have a journal without a 'her'. And she hurts. Dad tried to bring her up, he always tried that, being the good father, inquiring about their son's life. I didn't want to talk about her. He asked again. I didn't want to talk about her. And he pressed, he pressed again and again and didn't let up, and it dove into conflict always because we can't see or talk to each other without it becoming some argument, and dammit, I DIDN'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT HER!

Needless to say my day was ruined. My stomach rumbled forlornly with its lone cookie in its clutches, my mind wept with only the thought of her in its clutches and I stepped through my ruined day, with nothing but sorrow in my clutches.

I stayed up until 2 last night, trying to finish one of the thickest books I've ever seen. I started at 10:30. I finished at 2:15. I cried. It was a sad book, but it was a good book. I expected to wake up worn out, exhausted because I didn't get my full 8-9 hours, but I didn't. Suprise, suprise. I have to go to One Act practice in 2 hours. I need to stir fry in 2 minutes.

Oh, Brave New World.
 
The picture created with sadness. It dripped with sorrow and depression.

Burn it. Burn it until there's nothing left but the heart. Keep the heart. We need it, he doesn't.

The heat permeated everything including my skin. Sweat ran freely down my face and body, the Playstation controller gripped with lifeless fingers. Dead eyes and a slack jaw faced the screen. Heat waves morphed everything.

Game over.

Life has caught you. Life has ended you. No more hearts, run out of health packs, just watch and despair. Watch and die.

take it and run 'cuz there's nothing left-nothing to save you-nothing to lift. scream until there's no air leftscreamuntilit'sgone. scream when the world collapses leaving you behind leaving youin thedarkness leaving you alone

alone

Alone and I are good friends. Really, really good friends.
 
She was cute. I'll have no way of knowing what she thought about me. In retrospect, I might have asked for her number. The worst she could've said was no.

"Contacts?" I asked as I paid for my food. She kind of smiled and said, "No." I picked up my change, "Well, you have lovely eyes."

"Thank you." She said, she seemed to appreciate it, a soft pleasant suprise covering her face. And that was it. I think it was for the best. You only live once. I didn't stay long, I ate quickly then left, leaving a tip on the table. It would get into someone's hands, as long as they got it, I suppose. The Church was holding a New Years Eve party thing, staying up until 12, the whole bit. When I got there, I mainly slept, feeling nauseated. When I awoke and left a little after 11, it didn't let up any, I figured if I just went to bed real quick and slept it would go away. I didn't feel like throwing up on New Years. I didn't. I fell a sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow where I dreamed unremembered dreams and woke the next morning with no hangover.

Happy New Years.
 
I must have no life. I spent last night watching Monty Python and the Holy Grail, synchronizing my lips perfectly with what everyone said.

I now know perfectly the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow.

Nii.

School doesn't raise me up like it used to. Nowadays I try to get through the day without thinking. Everytime I start thinking, I get depressed. Bad thing? Probably, everyone needs to think, and I can't get through the day without mentally slouching because I started thinking of something.

"Stop that. It's starting to get on my nerves, why are you always like that?"

I never did answer her. She doesn't think like I do. She lives in a completely different world that I tread in. Bouncy. Preppy. Cheerleader. They're all the same. Except for the sluts. Haha, they're just heartless. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be the Cat I represent. What would it be like to appear and disappear at will? Smiling at no one in particular and living in your own mad world?

Can't escape it. Visit either you like.

They're both mad.

Can't run.

We're all mad here.
 
It's very hard to write a play. Hard to put it down into words, words that flow and don't get stuck halfway.

In my entire life I've only fully completed two short stories, one of which I have lost and wish never to retrieve because I disliked it so. The second one I consider my masterpiece, and for the life of me, I cannot find it either.

I do not consider myself a good writer in any sense, no, but I do love to write, I've no idea what I would without it. Probably wouldn't write this play. It's hard enough. Lord knows it's hard, especially when you're required to stretch the truth. The truth does not like being stretched, oh no, the truth HATES being stretched, but we ignore its protests and stretch anyway. This play is going to be wrought with pain. Oh, the stretching it must endure. But, it's beautiful.

The ending will captivate. Just thinking about it gets me excited.

A study of sin and sexuality.

My sin. My sexuality.

The sins I committ for the sexuality I strive to find. It scares me because I'm no longer sure. I was able to look people in the eye and tell them. No falter, no second thoughts. No longer.
Now, I say, and I stop and think, 'Really?' And I react to things I shouldn't react to, and I keep telling myself, its just my body, its just my body...

But is it?

I'm frightened.
 
Quiet days. Still searching, I don't think I'll find her, but I'm still looking. She might not even be here, she might be over there where I haven't even come close to looking yet. It's all about patience, I suppose, patience, patience and more patience.

I'm not very patient. I tend to jump right to things, my impulsive side usually getting me into deep trouble pretty quick. Just gotta roll with the punches.
I wrote a poem that my friends said was the best work they've seen so far. I wrote a short story that my friends said was creepy. I'm going good, just need to keep straight, keep pumping and maybe something will cum. I mean, come. Something always cums with me, not a day passes that I don't.

I disgust myself sometimes, but, hey, if you gotta, you gotta. At least I hope you gotta. I'll probably land myself in the hospital.

"What's he in here for?"

"Whacked his dick off, Doctor."

"Come again?"

"Yes, he did, and he didn't stop."

"Fetch a new one from the freezer, we've got plenty on supply. Keep it down to a minimum, son."
 
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