If thoughts were a thing that happened.

Feb 20th, 12:50 p.m.
     I am laying in a pool of cold water, the sky is dark and I can feel warm stagnation lifting off my belly and creep endlessly into that great void between me. Next to me is the only thing I could ever count as a possession: a floating plank of cedar. Now, as sometimes happens, the wind comes and brings all the smells of life I know but can't remember: hard sweat, genitals, perfume, smoke, alcohol, library pages, and always the cedar. The wind makes the stagnation lift a little more off my belly, and sometimes I try and catch some of it back. I lift one arm and it gets a little cold. It feels different. I let little beads of my own vapour and wind saturated smells get caught on my vestigial hair. I let the smells soak in on my skin and then drop them onto the cedar. I can keep them longer like this before they fade away. On the luckiest days, comin' in on the tail end of short zephyrs are these little birds of light. You can almost touch these little sparks sometimes, but mostly you just try and squint and see what you can make of the shapes in those lines and feathers. They bring just enough warmth to quickly dry my skin, and the little beads of water I sometimes leave on the wood turns into saltstains. The cracks in the dead water beads resemble the birds. At least I think so 'cause when I look at the plank it's all I see: those smells and the birds in the passing shapes of life so far away, written out in my dim, salty cracks. So far, I am happy just like this. There are days, though, with no birds, and no wind; days where I just feel the immeasurable cold blackness underneath, and I find myself, in the slowest touch, sink.

This is what a thought looks like.
Half baked, still pink on the inside, hardly edible. A mess all over the plate. OTC Stimulated thoughts sold for $7 a bottle. Stolen, returned, with a few more tokens within than before. Unfocussed thoughts. Thoughts about nothing. About people looking at themselves too seriously or not seriously enough. About the status quo being entangled within itself, and always unbound too hesitantly. Bad philosophy thoughts. I don't want to feel like this anymore. Putting words out in a half a heartbeat skipped inflection about putting a part of my mind out to rest. Shut up. Shut up brain. Do what i Want you to, not what you want me to do. Stop distracting me. Stop and start again. To a hip hop beat. To the unending drum solo of reconciliation between the world in here and the world out there. To an impressive image of quarrels coming out only with winners. All the losers forgotten joyfully. All great things end themselves and with no help from the Gods. Temply chest wall pains. Overcognisized burns. Overstimulated meaningless drivel. On and on. Word vouch for painfull ness. I need fun but my connections are drying up. I won't be able to read this. I don't know where I am. I don't know if I'll ever care to read this. I'm on a road to destruction and it's only got one lane and i'm sharing it with everyone else while we watch some lucky ones on across the median going the other way. Or we look enviously back and see the young faces who can't see ahead. Dark weather forecasts, the weatherman's always wrong and he still gets paid day after day. There is more to life than this. We hope. When we can hear the dull roar of an infinite army of souls falling off and dying everywhere. There's gotta be more than this. As we sit and mix out drinks and share stories about nothing but what we saw on the road. Or else we'd be bored to tears and suicide. There's gotta be more than this. We write and we share books made by people far more careful and observant than us. There's gotta be more than this. And we get the best of help from world class educators whose only shame is not being able to standup to the youthful minds coming in to take their place. Not ours, but they know they're out there and so do we. There's gotta be more than this. Even now as i sit with my eyes closed hoping this all unfolds properly so I won't have to try again because I should only get one shot at and life works in ways that always lead us towards our unforgiven determinism. We are helpless and there's only us to blame. There's gotta be more than this. There is nothing now. Beyond these fingers and closed eyes and haze, there is nothing worth escaping from or to. I can feel the stagnant alcohol nerve connections holding me back. Yet pulling me forward. Spending weeks at a time doing nothing but sitting in cigarette smoke and having fun and knowing it's not enough. We go to bars and empty them with a few dollars moved and the world turns again and we grow up and people hate us where we used to sit because they looked at us the wrong way or we were too stupid to know what to say. There's gotta be more than this. We stop, just for a moment. To reflect on what's coming soon, coming ahead. We realize we don't see much, just hopes but we feel them fizzling out due to our irreparable irresponsibility and bad game. And the technological vices that help us ignore real life keep faltering or breaking down and we get disappointed at them and disappointed when they only entertain us so little. There's gotta be more than this. And we wash down the same pills of routine and here goes nothing again, knowing that slowly our little rivers of thought that we've neglected somewhere else far away have dried up. We lost the map to creativity, to youthful radiance somewhere a long time ago. There's gotta be more than this. We're crashing over and over and dying every night in our dreams. We think about death and everytime we do we get a little closer there ourselves, we get there everytime we breath, we drink water, we fuck, we dance, we scream at the world that it's too loud and it needs to shut up and you're the only one making any godamn noise and you can't stop. So you start yelling at the echoes you've created and you try to cancel them out and your whole fucking world starts to crack like crystal. It never really breaks because you're too goddamn scared to get your voice in that perfect opera tone cause the whole mystery of everything else always screws you over when you get closer to breaking through it. There's gotta be more than this. Interruptions over interruptions getting between you and some unknown ambitions. You don't know what the fuck you're doing so stop pretending. Stop putting out fruitless bullshit because it's only cramping your hands and those rivers drying up somewhere lost in the maps of childhood were probably just going to be the same anyway. You repeat: There's gotta be more than this. There's gotta be more than transitory success and shame and shame again and so much sadness and heartbreak that you even wonder why the hell they gave you these little gifts in the first place. There's gotta me more than this. And you find love: a woman and sex and the smooth, silky sin of a live snake crawling all over her neck. And it's never enough, and you find magic and think it'll break you free from all the bad spells some evil lord put on you years ago but that only lasts for a moment too. I get what's advertised but I don't get the product. There's gotta be more than this. There's gotta be more than this. Ther-