Of The Nineteenth Daylight, When That Hipster Music Was Released, And The Sadness Sank Deeper

That is A-OKAY HOMIE, you go get that thing done, right, because what more can you do when that ever-occurring deadline is always descending, and hovering over you like a slow death, all final and absolute and inevitable and have you accepted it? You know that you must, but for now you can only stare at it and you only see an emptiness, man, and you know that she will not be there, and that scares the shit out of you, because what is emptiness at all without her? She's always been an emptiness herself, in her own beautiful way, all absent and gorgeous, and you just want to hold her so fucking tight, you know, and grip at her softness, and the strands of her hair, fuck, and it's all just so long gone and so close by and you know she's a lover and always will be, and you can't imagine anything else, and she's the only thing that can fill the emptiness, man, like a gorgeous air fills in a hole, all dark and hollowed under those pinprick stars, you know? I mean, fuck, sometimes you look up at night, yeah, and you see pictures between those bright and tiny points, but sometimes you look up and you see nothing at all, and that's her, man, because she's in the space between the sky and your eyes, like two crystals never touching, the void closing in, the world softly spoken, and a knowing whisper you can never quite hear but always understand: you know when God takes his final breath, you recognise that moment, and the darkness descends and look--are those her eyes?


Probably not, man, you know how it is, my eyes are half-sealed by too much sunlight and broken hopes; I can barely sustain a conversation with myself let alone the universe, and those sounds man, they're constantly beating on the walls, you know, like a builder constructing something that he isn't sure what it is, pylons all pointed upwards--but towards who, and for what?--and maybe the point is in the hammering, and not the finished structure, like how a coffin is just a coffin, you know man, like it doesn't mean anything, but it contains so much, so long as you see time as a string and not as a series of segments, of moments, of fractions, and you are that string, you know, a rope, tied to every other rope, and we're all pulling, man, we're pulling we're pulling we're pulling the sun across the sky.


I know the truth of it all, and I know what the right choice is, long-term and all, but fuck it, where did our youth go man?--when you could make bad choices and not think about it, and launch yourself right into your regrets with no thought for the consequences, like climbing a ladder that's missing its rungs, grabbing at empty spaces for the rush you feel at almost falling and then catching yourself again, slightly further down, slightly bruised and battered, man, but in love with that feeling and invulnerable to your own self-destruction and you're just grasping at hope, you know, reaching out and stretching your fingers like after typing an essay for too many hours, too many words over the limit, but you made your point, you think, staring at the screen that blurs your eyes and you're stinging and your eyelids are like iron weights, but you love that feeling too.


I could really go for the end of childhood around about now, since so much else has been ended, and I'm so confused because you know how endings are, and how they feel so final, but even though people say that endings are new beginnings I've never finished a book and then read the blurb, you know? And I mean that like if you love someone and love something and love everything then I suppose you'll be okay, but you'll still feel sometimes like you're slipping, man, you know, like rocks down the mountainside after the whole earth decides to shake because some fiery lava got angry somewhere, and because anger is such an awful, awful thing to feel and so of course the ground had to and has to shake—of course we have to shake everything, we're so fucking angry, man, and we're so goddamn tired of feeling this way about things, and we're just searching for peace, yeah, and we know we know we know it's at the top of that mountain, but the mountain is crumbling, and if the mountain gets shorter will the peace be as peaceful? We are just hiking and we have our tents with us and we sleep alone but together sometimes—there’s a rip in one of our tents, don't you know, it was a bear maybe, or just a stick, but the bear's a better story so of course it was a bear, a big brown and black one, with tired, lonely claws, and who are we to camp in his land, ascend his quiet peak, we are, after all--We Are Only Demanding To Love, Okay?


You know how we are, man, so insatiable and unfair, right, so desperate for any kind of connection at all and guided maybe by frustration towards something ill-advised and beautiful, which is the way so many things are, such poor life decisions, like waking up to vodka with the taste of rum on your teeth, so certain that this, this is the way of living, like walking on the wrong side of the road, and that road is a highway, and the inbound traffic is always, always humming along as a monster, all snarling teeth and overwhelming fire breathed through its nose, burning the whole world underneath those tainted wheels, like lighting a matchstick that's already spent, we are.

Jonathan O'BrienComment