Pot Helps pt. 21

You only say you can't imagine pure nothing because you can imagine everything but you don't and the worst part is you don't even realize you can imagine everything in the first place because we just follow the ball which causes us to be broken down and forget things that we once felt like all those pins in needles in our legs when we were a bit new at the game and also thought that we could see through objects that were up close when we couldn't understand right then and there the power of having two forward eyes for viewing.

Because I've been to places where I shoplifted to get a girl and places where I couldn't suck the air into my lungs fast enough and I've drank more glasses of water than I've had mornings where I woke up with a positive attitude and that don't mean a fucking thing except that I have a bit more appreciation for when a bona fide positive attitude comes around or at least that is the excuse I give so people will get off my fucking back because I couldn't even tell you where I stop or if I already have.

So I'm going to do what I do best is make a to-do list and cross some things off and get to put the cap on my pen for one more day so I can stand up not without a stiffness in my back but in a better attitude with which to receive it as I finally make my first trip of the day outside only to cross [5. Exercise] off my list as I run past the small gathering outside that one fucking restaurant and one of the patrons applauds what he believes to be rocks in my backpack as I run, carrying myself and the extra weight up on back towards my lovely hole I found for myself here near our small but suitable coast, carved out of a dying empire, constantly brainstorming gun-laden plans for defending myself against what seems to be an eventual mudslide towards economic collapse and the regrettable military style reactions that everyone should but doesn't and only me a handful of my paisanos worry about.

As I sit here wearing the loose cyan pants worn by our father on the night of your birth in a hospital, as I slept unknowingly in my basement catacomb at a ripe and shaky 13 years of age, the same shaky age at which you find yourself now, these pants littered with lounged days and depressed sighs, piss stains from a lazily shaken dick and depleted cups of tea and water, the same pants I took with me on one return trip to a desert country I could have lived without seeing again and which I could only imagine what immensities and possibilities regarding which you may or may not be curious to think about concerning me and the life you have come to realize is quite unlike what you ever may have even imagined before. And for some reason I’m sorry.

Because I will say here what I will most likely say many times hereafter about how I feel most like some sort of burnt out nerve ending, sent to occupy an earthly mass like a pinpoint between the dynamics of palm-faced, shaking-head fantods and smoke billowing apathy and to come up with no sum short of that I’m just a bit tired and could use a coma or something to recharge because I’m running on low and I’m fucking sick of having to keep my droopy, exhausted gaze upon convincing myself to keep this earthly mass for like a week or two more and to do so I have to imagine a not too distant futures filled with hand to mouth survival and basic righteousness of which I will shine like a motherfucking supernova because then it really will be a level playing field unlike what you were born into and accept without question or curiosity and I seem to have a nuclear powered radar for and am just fucking sick of having to absorb the suffering you choose not to see because you allowed your culture to turn off your radar for you.

And all the while I'm oh so nasolacrimal-ly sorry.