I awoke today with insipid energy. What this energy is prescribed for is beyond me, but I know I


    must go again.. so I walk in a direction, around the town I am lead through the alleyway. I talk


    through my actions, the movement of my body calls out to those around me; and we pass by each


    other in a faint unison, as all others have been called to, yet to a place that is specific to them; and


    for me my destination is lacklustre at this point.


    I’ve been meaning to communicate; and to this, it links directly to the call for identification, and so


    my will to be self-sufficient, away from those who belittle me in the most loving of fashions.


    There is a space that I have heard about, through someone I met this one time, in a place not so far


    from here. The town is large; but small enough in its repetition to catch even the unsuspecting


    audience in strange locations; and so this moment falls upon me while I was searching for a fix to


    supplant my daily longing for attention.


    I met them at a dive bar, which sold marijuana; and occasionally I would do this instead of its drinks,


    for it is far more affordable. Over the days of smoking, stretched across weeks of longing, I had come


    across this gentleman who seemed interested enough to partake in the spontaneous ceremony of


    conversation; and this is quite special, for it seemed to be solely for the sake of conversation itself,


    and so there is more appeal to the generality at which the conversation can be sparked; and the


    gymnastics involved to orient ourselves from within each others gaze.


    The relationship is not so prolongingly deep, as it was momentarily personal, for it occurs in passing;


    but regular passing occurs as we align our sentiment to time and addiction with another.


    He introduces me to a community centre which deals in the arts; and so over time I have grown


    acquainted by such a place, and so decide that this is where I will be heading to, today.


    I have been around this area for a brief amount of time; but long enough still for the regular to


    notice and provide me with a thumbs up, or a tip of the hat.


    A lot of the populace around here are not inclined to language like I am, and so sometimes it feels as


    though there is a barrier that blocks us from interaction; but action also accounts for things, and I


    enjoy watching the hubbub that occurs around such an area when people consider themselves to be


    busy – I am not such a person, and so my time there is quaint, and somewhat removed, such as with


    the observer of a long movie.


    Today she is standing there, unwittingly, waiting for her next hit, she proceeds to inhale the smoke


    of a cigarette; and I am compelled to say hello, but I cannot confront her just yet, for I have no


    reason to, save for the cigarette; but I cannot come to justify myself at the face of it, for I am not so


    used to these general conversations – and so struck lucky with the gentleman, who approached me.


    I find it difficult to approach anyone, and especially in this moment, looking at her, for she rings bells


    in my head that are akin to the red flags of a funeral pyre, calling out for the crowd into the distance.


    What is it about this woman that calls to me? I think back to my past, remembering all of those that I


    have interacted with, within my shifting time frame of how I perceive demographic placement.


    Perhaps I have a profound hate for these things; perhaps I cannot confront it and so this anxiety is


    what calls to this hatred, or perhaps it is that no one has interacted with me after that point, in


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    which I felt a moment, together, and so never again – it repeats itself in my mind like a machine gun


    that rips apart dead corpses.


    I suppose I enjoy looking at corpses, especially when they move.


    This statement is sardonic, but my mind flashes between her and my deeper interests in the book.


    The disk that calls out to me from its frame; and I wonder to myself if she has anything to do with it,


    besides as the image of the last, who destroyed my morality.


    “I suppose we all have something to do with it” I whisper, leaving her for a moment as I look down at


    the table I am sitting at. She is a few rows down, separated by a window, she sits outside.


    Across from me are empty tables, no one is in this room at present; but I can hear music in the


    background, for the band, or one of them, is playing a light jazz, that distracts me from thinking


    further. I fall into a slight daze, as I choose to listen to the music instead.


    She walks past me, coming into the room, waving a gesture. I say “good day”. My mind rushes for a


    moment, but it might not have seemed so, for I only looked up; and before I could look down again,


    she moved into the adjacent room, off to do something again.


    “She would not be a part of the band”, I am thinking to myself; but maybe she enjoys watching


    them. I get up and make my way into a small hallway with many doors. I follow the sound of the


    music, taking me to a red lit studio; and I decide not to open the door. “small door, many hallways”


    I did not want the music to stop; and the amount of people that are currently synchronised must be


    at least five. I turn around and face the exit, I must leave now.


    It was not the music that inspired me to stop; but rather the amount of eyes that momentarily shift


    as one proceeds to do anything as of late. The anxiety gets worse as I proceed to think deeper about


    the book. It calls me away from all contact, forbidding it, in some sense, and so relying heavily on a


    sensory deprivation to guide me into the annuls of nothingness, I walk.


    “I don’t understand why I enjoy it so much” I say, kicking the rocks lightly as I move around, now lost


    in a city, I had no real feeling to be inside of any building at all, I was in the midst of a slight


    claustrophobia. One of the skin, where no open space could save for the compartmentalisation of


    my mind, and the squiggling of my body, I could almost hear the water flowing.


    In this, I felt a sense of comfort, and an arbitrary voice that communicates with me, not in words;


    but in sense, and so I felt it for a moment, and so I believed that I understood.


    It draws out like a ringing tinnitus; but the ideas are planted like a playwright. I can hear the words


    through the memory, calling out to me, it requires an image to be repeated; and so it shows me the


    information of the former. Even without any disturbance, I still find myself distracted at these points,


    by my breath, by the beating heart, or the blood that flows around this cadaver.


    It is an obsession that has built itself up now for quite a while; but recently the images are becoming


    more powerful, and the words are becoming cursed. It can be described as a snap, as in my back,


    breaking; but not over labour, and moreso over shearing waves that rip everything apart.


    She only seems to make it worse sometimes, when I am thinking about her; and when I cannot stop


    thinking about her. Although in this sense, the contrast is what strikes me, and why it is that I exist


    here, upon its opposing order.


    It would seem as though she, herself, was this wave; and so holding everything together, she guides


    me through magnetic light; but I rip it apart; I am designed to rip it apart – she guides me to destroy


    herself, it would seem. How can she not guide me, considering this shearing force is now


    everywhere and cannot be unseen?


    “it is reserved for me” I say selfishly, believing that whoever I said good day to would have no


    understanding of what it is that I have seen, what I am currently envisioning.