the submerged submersible

Memorial Day Weekend, Hollis Brown Thornton


i have nothing to say (add) (reclaim). only that Beirut has some music out and the dark circus only Beirut knows about makes me want to curl up into a little nothing in the corner of a room where the adults are laughing and playing cards, and be small and tiny and again (always) (never-stopped) a lost child, am nothing better than.

in other news i am observing slowly while my body diminishes again (once a year i destroy myself through-and-through). i collapse into narcoleptic fits at all hours, and occasionally refuse to sleep before 5:30am out of rebellion. (though no one seems to care whether i do or not). (the barista at the 24-hour coffee place is happy for the company though, and we talk a little, before we realize we're running in different directions and she goes back to her counter and i to my staring idly away).

also there is the problem of law school that has grown and gathered its strength and now sits at every doorstep smiling at me more intimidating and more obscenely busy than the last doorway. i have too many everything's to do. i should not be sitting here. i should not have gotten up only at 10am. i should not have gone to sleep at only 9pm. i should not have anything anythinged. i should not have. i should have sat in the library till i merged with the books and led the rebellion back to a tree age. all those pages quietly (the silent shall inherit the earth) creeping back towards soil. when the kids show up in the morning every Principles of Tortuous Liability cover is plastered into a tree-trunk or indeterminate liability is etched ever so faintly on a leaf.

let's get shakey after school. let's break the rules. let's do that. let's go crazy.

i am tempted, out of a spite that has no real origin, (only that during the fast i am overcome with a general dislike of anything slightly organized or authoritative) to call a sprint race, me and my soul. i run through 14 terribly reprehensible experiences, and see if my soul can hang on tight enough to be standing with me on the other side. OR, if through that bastard's sneeky push-pull-gravity-party-trick, (s)he'll manage to derail the self-loathing express back off the sprint track.

always it is too hot.
i will not slow this cant till it rains i stand by this.

there is no good excuse for being human.