transportation graveyard
From a distance upon leaving New York on a train,the skyline looks like a graveyard. An conglomerate of tombstones. And in that instant I knew New York was killing me. Perhaps it was all of the skyscrapers of New York represent a soul who loved this city too much. A body for each building.I suppose when New Yorkers die we don’t go to heaven or hell. We become monuments to the city because we’re all too reluctant to leave if we find a spot that’s rent controlled. And the ones who can up and go to leave New York faster than a one night stand after the sinning is done, must have never truly unconditionally loved this city. All that I’m sure of is that when I depart this body and I cease to exist in this life I will still be in New York, chiefly because I’m too sentimental to ever leave. My spirit will haunt the bars I once frequent ,scaring people in the bathroom as they take their chemicals from a strangers apartment key, shooting Columbia up their nostrils. It will be like nothing has changed. I anticipate the day when my soul becomes a skyscraper to the city that not only birthed, but taught me. And for once all of my friends will stand tall and proud,slightly courageous no longer afraid of the heights in life, and no longer only accustomed to the lows.
Rusty rigs and white walls.
Paul created his own personal virus and he made himself sick so he could slowly evaporate into a brand of nothing. But why? Why would someone want to contaminate themselves spending their days and nights hunting restlessly among the seedy hustlers,addicts and pimps who lurked Avenue C at night. But that was the punchline to his joke. His underlying and sadistic motive was to have the family he resented watch his deterioration and after all they deserved to watch, right? His grandfather paid for his virus because he couldn’t tell him no since his mother kicked him out because she feared he would make his five year old sister sick if she grew up around him. He made different false claims daily to bribe his grandfather into giving him money. He said it was for job interviews or he needed money to take the subway or buy a new suit. But, the only time he took the subway was when he needed to get uptown to Harlem to go to the needle exchange for new,cleana nd sterile rigs. His grandfather already knew this, but he was too tired to fight him. Paul would get his hands on money one way or another. Either from stealing things from his grandfather or from pedestrians,he would find a way.. The excuses Paul feed his family ran wild, vibrant and malicious like most lies. But there’s something different about the lies that comes out of an addicts mouth. When an addict lies they’re not aware that they’re lying because their sickness has already taken them by hostage. Their bodies is just the host for their parasitical addiction that needed some dreary soul to feed on. An addicts lie is stale and emotionless at times so powerful that both parties drown.
His grandfather could see where his retirement money was invested whenever he went inside Paul’s unkempt room of dirty laundry, socks that were once white and flowers that were once alive but have been neglected. His money hung proudly like a trophy on the bed room wall, blood residue randomly dispersed like a Pollock painting because he couldn’t hit a vein.
So that’s why he let them watch. His family paid for their tickets to the show so they might as well watch. They are the anonymous investors of this production while he was just the struggling actor.
theredbackpack asked: haha did you mean to write "shut" or "shit"? i definitely meant "shit" but was trying to sound cool
NO NO lol I def know what ish means lol
I was just confused by when u said Im sitting on shit that would blow minds..do you mean you think Im sitting on some ideas that im yet to write that would blow peoples minds,like you feel I have something in me or something???
that part I was confused about lol
xo
theredbackpack asked: hey i came upon this blog bc on your other blog you reblogged something of mine and i always check out people who do that stuff. anyway i am interested in other writers on tumblr i am one i have written a book and it is available for free on my tumblr. i like the things you write here but i feel like you are sitting on some other ish that'd blow minds. just dropping you this note and thanks for the reblog!
“i like the things you write here but i feel like you are sitting on some other ish that’d blow minds”
Im sitting on some shut that would blow minds??? whattt lol im confused
and np,I like reblogging lol
7:48 am
I thought that if I let him in the bees will cease to buzz,rhythmically in my chest.And my heart rate will suddenly decline. But as I finally opened the door to the place i stored my fictitious heart there was nothing there awaiting me. Not the buzzing I anticipated or brittle branches, rapidly sprouting from my stomach. I was welcomed by a much more familiar sound,silence.If there was one sound I can hear despite how loud my mind can become is silence. I take comfort in that fact. Besides all of my pleas during moments of desperation, ricocheting between mania and normalcy, the sound of silence is what I always secretly wished for. Silence reminded me of the dark I used to dread as a child because I didn’t know what was lurking behind the darkness, which is similar to the sound of silence, you don’t know why things are quiet or if it’s something you said that left others with a need to be silent around you.Silence is finite. There’s no false identities in silence or the darkness. You have to face yourself and not many are comfortable with themselves enough to be alone. Only when they’re with others,giving pseudo smiles at cocktail parties,drinking top shelf liquor to make everything louder and lighter.
My need for things to be hushed is why there wasn’t a buzz. I tried to masquerade as someone who liked the sounds of other people. My body rejected him and I spit him out with the ferociousness of a lion,twice as fast. It was my only way to stay unusual,by forwarding him to exile because keeping the taste that he left me with could drive me to madness. I didn’t need him chiefly because I couldn’t! And at night, while I’m asleep I convulse in hopes to reach someone that was never really there. I’ve always been the type to have a sick imagination. Blurring the things that aren’t real so much I believe them. I have now gained an new imaginary friend.
sleep comes to me naturally
I feel the most comfortable
When I’m laying down
on a mattress with spots of crimson
When my eyes are sealed
and my brain is no longer aware of what it has done
that my thoughts of a field composed of newborns and white roses
can remain unnoticed
Just like my body that is the patchwork of my diagnosis
quilted together by different patterns and fabrics
all to the most extreme and limitless
I dream with the imagination of a child
With the hopelessness of a weed
awaiting to be plucked from its root.
Sleep comes to me naturally,just like dying
I hibernate in the winter
spring
summer
and fall
Write.
OK, so I haven’t updated this blog in a while and here’s why,I feel that the stuff I really like I don’t want out there on tumblr where it can be copied and pasted and have people use as theirs. Also I wanna save my real great shit to myself in case if it was to ever get published. I’m also a major fuck up and I need to get more motivated and listen to my mind and not my body despite how lazy I can get.And last but, not least, I’m not happy with the product. As of lately what I’ve been writing I don’t like so why should I give it to you guys if I don’t even like it. My inspiration has hit a thud. Despite how much I prefer loneliness (sometimes I think I’m Charles Bukowski #teamsolitude)I love to write about people and their conditions, humans and nature are my favorite subjects to write and to think about. I really observe humans a lot and for some of you who follow me on twitter or have me on facebook would know from my posts that I observe a lot, usually it’s me complaining about a certain pattern I notice in people that annoys me and makes me glad I’m alone. LOL.
With that being said, hopefully a new post tomorrow. Do you guys wanna read my take at poetry? Can I be your prose little darling?
Anonymous asked: You are back now?
I’ve BEEN here doll!! I wrote a recent post called room 504 about a week or so ago!!!
thanks for asking!
Room 504
To others it’s just a window.One that’s perfectly cracked opened to let the bitter New York City winter air in,producing a howl to linger in your hair as it brushes across your face,strands stuck to your dry lips. But for her it was more than glass offering a view to the outside,it was a vehicle to transport from us to them.There has always been a clear segregation between those who are alive and those who are dead.We either live in homes or cemetery plots but if you really look,it’s just real estate.That’s all it is.Both worlds are separate and both are alive,neither are unaware,our realities are just different as we cross over.
The room is empty with the exception of two students sitting in their unofficial assigned seats.One was a homely blonde with a forehead that nearly composed her entire face, reading a novel and a pseudo alternative boy who was dressed all in black on his phone. But, they were of no annoyance to her because they were silent.She preferred people to enjoy the silence and just shut up.We fill our lives with so much conversations that would be best if they were never discussed and with stale small talk that makes our mouths dry because the content is bland and mediocre like the burgers from a high school cafeteria.
She peeked her head out of the window and was immediately attacked by taxis sharing the same color,sound and sting as a bee, pedestrians and the unique aroma of New York.The upper east side is beautiful and she had the desire to fly like a bird over the tree lined streets and townhouses. Expensive cars lined the streets, a series of luxury she will never know.
“I want my body to fall on the roof of the black Mercedes Benz that is 5 flights below me.” she said to herself. It has always been her dream car.After two failed suicide attempts deep down she knew the only way to complete this task, which is inevitable and one day must be completed she had to leap and fall gracefully from the window. That way she knew there was a minimal chance of survival.She’ll be gone but not for good. Tragedy turned interestingly romantic.Immortalized by the local news and tomorrows obituaries.
convulsion
A film is playing.
A thud to the floor.
She laid there shaking.
Her legs rhythmic in a tremble.
She’s having a seizure.
In an instant the situation changed. A life was slowly slipping away.
Wavy brown hair, ridden with grease on her scalp continued to bang continuously on the chair behind her.
Several students gathered around her body however,in times like these no one wants to be the hero because that takes too much work. One person became the victim, so automatically the rest of the group felt as if they were victimized as well. No one could move because no one wanted to. They were all waiting for someone to save them. During times like this you see how cowardly we all are and how the human race always feel so entitled.
“Does anyone here know what to do?” said the homely blonde who sat in the front of the class. One of the few times I heard her speak,and I was hoping it would be the last as the voice of others annoy me probably more than their presence.
I looked down at her in complete shock as I witnessed my first seizure.
Why her and not me? I thought.
She’s innocent. I’m not.
One would think after all the times I’ve been on the brink of death due to reckless actions and a need to abandon my own life I would be the one on the floor.
A few days ago I put a knife to my wrist, not to cut the pain away but to end it permanently due to an ache that is infinite.To have a final conversation with this silent voice that has been haunting me. That was my second failed attempt. Later that same night I had a nightmare of a sharp point entering my arm,filling my veins with the closest thing I had to a religion.
I desperately want to eliminate myself from this miserable game I never seem to win,while this poor girl didn’t even have the option to decide if she wanted to continue to play or not. The game already rolled the dice for her.
So why am I still alive?
I’ve been through a lot but, not enough. Failed attempts,near overdoses yet I remain.
The paramedics came 30 minutes after we called them. Luckily she was still alive due to the assistance of one classmate and our professor.”Everyone take a break. We will resume class shortly.”
I strolled down the tree lined Park Avenue smoking a Marlboro 100, taking in the townhouses I could never afford and the cars I would never have the luxury to crash. I needed to regroup and rethink.Not only of the events that I witnessed in my classroom but of my own life as well, or whatever is left of it. School girls dressed in uniform stared at me as I walked by.I smiled at them,they grimaced.
The ambulance was parked outside but they were not in a hurry like they are in the movies. No one screamed “STAT” or paced fast with a stretcher to deliver their patient. There was absolutely nothing but slow walking,short footsteps and dry eyes. No one cares in real life like they do on television. If she’s dead or alive they are still going to get paid the same. They’re just doing their job so they won’t get fired and a job with good benefits is like hitting a goldmine,especially if you’re living in New York City. And at the end that is all that matters.
I took the elevator back to my classroom.
“So what did you guys think of the movie so far? the professor asked.
Faint and nervous laughter lingered in the room. She pressed play, the movie continued right where we left off.
