A thought

I think I might have started working at the saddest place on earth.

A thought stream.

It is the month of April and I am about to sleep.  The future is uncertain and bleak which is fine.  At least it is uncertain. I participated in an instant message conversation. The other participant asked if I had any film ideas stored somewhere in my head.  I replied, "I am no longer a filmmaker." I am no longer that person and I am not better. I spent an hour browsing profiles of past acquaintances on facebook to compare their lives to my own. I guess I was really just looking for someone who was a real fuck up. So I could tell myself; See? You are not that person! Now that person. That is a REAL fuck up. I met an old out-of-town-now-living-in-ny friend at the local library. It was an awkward reunion. I am sensing that my old friends don't think much about me. I don't really blame them. I wish there was a way I could tell them that the charade is no longer needed. These days, I am thinking more about the idea of an afterlife. It would be nice if it was a bar and the year was 2000. It is silly. I don't necessarily believe in a fantasy realm of positive vibes and good times. I know I am nothing more than a brain executing a program. But if I know that, then why am I constantly having mental conversations with God? Why me? I ask. Why do I exist in a place where nothing happens. At this place there is no left or right.  Just a persistent halt. I watched my nephew's little league baseball game. It was a windy fifty degrees outside. The kids were more interested in shivering than playing. My other nephew turned 18. I am getting old. I would be more at peace if I knew heaven was a bar and the year was 2000 and the music was from the nineties. I despise the city that I live in for being the city that I grew up in. When I look at other cars on the highway, all I see are people that I might have went to school with, who might be laughing at me. All the time. Like they have nothing better to do with their time than to constantly think about me and laugh. I had dreams as a kid and those dreams are just as close to becoming a reality now as they were then. In the end, all that really matters is that something tangible existed at some point in time. I am not crazy. Hopelessly broken, maybe. Is it too late to pursue a dream? Are these artificial boundaries made real by the clock of mortality?

Catalogue Entry for a Dream

Glory Glory Hallelujah!
Sang the King,
in the city of hotels
by the sea.
Glory Glory Hallelujah!
Sang the King,
as he walked by an old lady
who smoked a cigarette
outside of a welcoming tavern.
Glory Glory Hallelujah!
Sang the King,
as he looked down at overcast skies
in the reflections of the sea.

There ends the land.
There ends his journey.

The Desert Dungeon

It's been one week.  I've counted the days by observing the cyclic appearance of a spot of light on the otherwise dark basement floor. It traces the arc of the sun through the sky. I could make a damned sundial if I traced its path.

My captors locked me inside this basement, entombed behind an ancient metal door, apparently to be entombed. The United State's government does not negotiate with terrorists. I guess they got the message. Before they had just thought the United States were jokesters. In this quasi-christian nation, I suppose not personally executing me offered a chance of redemption, somewhere for someone at some point. I really mean, I hope it was a religious decision.  Otherwise, they are just assholes.

I use a rock to bang on the door, whenever I think I hear someone on the outside. My paranoia has convinced me that everyone in this country is a terrorist.  Not completely sure that there is not an unspoken agreement that whoever is put in this basement, stays in this basement. Or maybe I have it all wrong. There are good people out there. Including my captors. Them, leaving me here, was an attempt to release me. Their plans foiled by the lack of ears to hear my banging and the lack of my banging due to hunger.

If they had wanted to release me then I'd have been released.

I am hungry. This hunger amongst the rancid smell of my own feces is sick, how can I be hungry? When the heat of the day rises to its apex the flies, shit, and humidity combine into the most rotten of soups. I'd puke if there was something in my stomach.

In these last days of my life I am surrounded by my own filth, with an empty stomach, an empty soul, cursing the heavens for making me human when I would have been better suited as an animal.  If an afterlife exists, I'd rather not bring this memory with me. If an afterlife doesn't exist. Even better.