say something

there are times when i get possessed by this strange, horrifying desire to become famous.  paint my skin in neon colours and go stand in the middle of a busy intersection.  write a pulitzer-worthy novel.  change the world with the tip of a fucking pen.  it’s something akin to what it might feel like if my insides were suddenly turned to carbonation and i sat through an earthquake.  POP.  a thousand tiny bubbles of chris splatter the walls of this shambly dorm and drip down isaac’s stunned face (see the little bubbles in his sideburns? oh how cute teeheheheheeee).

i want to know where that feeling comes from.  warpaint my face and hunt it with a knife, or club, or just rip into that need with my teeth and scream through the blood and howl, consuming that evil demon.

i remember.  when i was sixteen, i would lock my door, draw the blinds, quiet the lights and just shut the hell up.  i would lie on my floor, on my back, crucified to my floor, flattened by the peace that enveloped that room.  the yellow steamy dust dropping in through the window, diced by my blinds (they were green.  GREEN), and just listen.  shut the fuck up and listen, and disappear into my carpet, leave the arcing plane of this world just for one precious hour and become a part of this giant symphony that is LIVING BREATHING PLANET EARTH.

i lost that this afternoon.  i was possessed by that demon of success.  of loudness.  of pride.  of fame.

shhhhh…

quiet.  cut your hair.  grow a beard.  sit back in a rocking chair with the light off.  listen to the wind in the trees, the sound of gentle entropy, the sound of your skin rubbing away to dust, the sound of new cells growing in their place.  i am slowly dying, and it is quiet.

-chris