My hands hover over the keys, small fragments of ideas coming to mind. Looking across at the people besides me in this hushed library, I drift off into the burrows of my mind one more, emotions dancing around, colors colliding in a junction of thought. The glint of someone’s laptop screen catches my eye as I see them scrolling through a college webpage, browsing the archive that will be their future. Soon enough I’ll be slowly scrolling down college pages and worrying about my ACT score, and I’ll have to decide what I want to do with my life so it’s not sucked away into an endless abyss of an eight to five day of depression. I begin to type.
have you ever thought about how contemplating the future of our lives is almost like contemplating all of this universe's existence? in our small, insignificant lives in a world that could be shadowed by greater planets trillions of light years away, we are worrying about the future. we sit on our beds, laptops warming our thighs through the uncomfortably tight jeans that make you feel like your ass is sticking out, those jeans that make you constantly adjust your posture while walking through the hallways, not focusing on anybody else except for this tangible denim object--those jeans. we look at google, using every ounce of our willpower not to get sucked back into the hellhole that is social media and just browse, seeing the hundreds of options of colleges all over the world, seeing the amount of debt you will have, wondering if you will meet people, questioning if your grades will be good enough, stressing if you can find a job at the end of your four years, and always worrying about drive. that drive that makes us who we are, that pushes us to become our greatest, striving for that next step and continuing on, leaving those who plateau in their careers in the dust.
but will that really happen? will you find what you love before you just start maturing as a human? what if that's the wrong job? what if i end up being an accountant, the accountant that sits at a crappy desk, looking at all of the other dumbasses, and making sure to fill that last data table so the paycheck comes in. so many questions to contemplate, and many people can never wrap their head around what they want to do, and by the time that they put the god-awful graduation cap of regret on and walk off that stage, they already begin to feel resentment toward their road they never want to walk along. try to wrap your head around the complete screwball that is college and a broken education system and come back when you understand this.
Sigh. I can feel my little engine up above chugging along at full speed ahead, barreling through the stop signs, wanting to keep moving towards a destination [of what?]. My mind is blank--nothing comes to mind, but I need something to come to mind. This feeling of wanting but not having leaves a pit in my mind, confusion in the stomach, and although I know not of what will come, I begin to press the keys once more. I begin to type.
now the word flutter refers to many things in my life right now, but at the moment it's my thoughts. they won’t stand still--a psychopathic child running in circles screaming ‘social interaction.’ that word in itself makes me want to get up and throw my limp ragdoll ass over a bridge. but it’s something i’ve got to work on. funny enough, typing this probably isn’t getting me anywhere in the broken road of society.
one thing that i really hate about myself is how my mind is a trap. half the time during writing i’ll just stop and start the writing in my head, and honestly, it’s much easier to do that. i can follow the progression of my thoughts much easier than my fingers spastically beating down the keyboard, the once soft matted keys now giving off a metallic ring as they are hit. i don’t know what it is about writing that somehow takes me away from the world--whether it be the way to pour emotions into a blank sheet of paper or allow you to escape reality, it has an effect on someone. the fact that i can just stop typing and do it in my head, hearing how i would inflect it, visualize it, etc. may be a good thing for some, but when so much is missed from these stories and stored away in the chaotic file cabinet of my mind, it starts to take away from what is on a page. to add to this, i will never, ever, plan any of this writing. having a storyboard gives you somewhere to go, and can bring you to a common goal with ease, but when you write on a whim, the words flow as efficiently as someone's thoughts, and this can lead to a free, expressive piece, with depth and texture not achievable through plans.
thoughts. they can destroy humans, build up others, and allow for opportunities unlike any other. every person has them; so many of these thoughts go through someone’s mind daily, many often non-controllable. some thoughts get stuck--and you don’t want them there. disgusting, vile, thoughts, more f’d up than you can ever imagine, and you are the host. they crawl about your mind, feeding off of your dismay as you scream at them GET OUT, and it just feeds them more, and these become more embedded. you are persistent this isn’t right this isn’t right this isn’t right and eventually, it doesn't become right. the satisfaction of your own willpower takes over, and you are free of this parasite feeding on human thoughts. then its back.
no
no no no
please.
it soothes you, the vivid images of slowly dragging the knife down their body enticing you, begging you, needing you. it keeps coming back after you have severed its lifeline, and each time it becomes stronger, a hydra of resentment ready for you to slash off another one of its forsaken heads. again. again. again. again. it’s back, more, more more more more more more. now you want it. you need it. you live for it. there is no
thoughts. there is no you
you are the thought
no.
the thought is you.
it begins to drive you
down what appears to be a road
and looking down this interstate of feeling
its long. too long.
a small fracture runs along this road, not winding, not curving. it's just. straight. too straight. i don’t want this to be straight, but i didn’t make this road, the road made me. but can i change this road? i want to, sure as hell do, but the enormities of doing such as task scare me beyond belief. i don’t want this road to be static, grass cleanly edged along the sides, perfect yellow lines streaking the middle in perfect unison. the blue sky and white clouds slowly drifting together, constellations of mist being displayed in the glistening sun. some might want this road; completely perfect, no problems whatsoever. was this my road? or was this someone else's. no. none of this was ever me. my road was, is utter hell, winding snakes of cracked asphalt interchanging with each other ever so slightly, overgrown foliage murdering the yellow lines, faded white tingeing the sides. which road do i want? i can choose, but should i choose? i don’t know, i don’t want to, it's too much. i create roads, i destroy roads, i am the road. this is my upbringing and my destruction, so how do i want to shape it? should i shape it, or will it eventually sort itself out?
is it even a road
is it multiple roads?
when will my fracture end
This engine is going too fast now, it's flying through the rolling hills and fractured roads like a bullet, missing everything that is passing by, only involved in it's small metal tracks underneath these wheels that appear to never stop moving. There is no turning back now, just the speed of my fingers flying across the keyboard. I begin to type.
There’s gotta be a way to get rid of this key. It fixes errors, gives us confidence to undo what has been done, and destroys masterpieces. For this whole piece, I will keep my ideas going, ignore the backspace as much as possible (mind the spelling and grammar errors) and continue on as raw as possible. With the one key near you at all times, it removes a sense of conscientiousness, giving you the freedom to revive all that has been killed. Not for me. Every time it is hit, a word that could’ve been, isn’t. The backspace is a big no. It is the bane of the human will, making them question their morality in writing, affecting how they write, and comforting them when a mistake is made. Screw this key and all that is associated with it, i'm going to abandon it for the entirety of this book. If you have to question a thought, then it should be on the page. Screw the whole saying “if you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say it,” SAY IT. Your mistakes are out there for the world to criticize, and the usage of one key shouldn’t remove you from criticism. If you have to think about what you write then the purpose of writing is removed. Writing should be a freeform expression, not hindered by the power to veto any idea that is scribbled upon a page. The premise of an undo in people’s lives has become too powerful, and sometimes, the only way to move backwards is by going forwards.
Towards the future.
The sheer raw force of this train has worn me out, and the small bits of steam slowly sleep through my nerves, each releasing small bits of breath as the wheels begin to churn to a screeching halt, sparks flying as this train slowly begins to end.