Just Pretend I Never Left.

Hey guys, its been a while… I have been writing but it kind of feels like when you throw shit at the wall and hope it sticks. But it doesn’t. The more I listen to other writers talk about their process and what their head is like I’m starting to realize that I’m not that strange. At all. And it’s okay to be pissy and hate my writing and not want to share it… 

But those rare moments I don’t feel that way I should learn to jump at them a bit more intensely.

I think as a “writer” the biggest mistake I make is that I stop writing abruptly, specifically when I am not ready to. A lot of the time I don’t have the option to just hold off and make things wait so writing comes more as a filler than I’d like it to be. I suppose the real mistake would be beginning to write when I know I don’t have much time. Or I try to do so somewhere I know I will end up distracted.

However, with this mistake comes some bits and pieces and I’ll be posting them in the coming days. A rather large thank you to those of you still following me even though I take large breaks from posting and interacting often. I’m sure a handful of you get it, but I still feel guilty. Anyway…

“I’m tired of caring about the preservation of a species that only cares about the preservation of their made up concepts. I’m tired of worrying about the resources being used up and being taken for granted while others are just worrying about having the newest, fastest, cell phone. I’m tired of being nervous about where the next president will bring us while everyone else is worried about how much cash he or she will be raking in. Like any of us would ever see any of that cash. It’s so exhausting. It’s tiresome constantly being on edge because you’re the minority when you’re able to look past the surface variables that make up your neighbors. Does this make sense? Am I making any sort of point here? You get it man, right?”

The man behind the counter, five feet and roughly ten inches tall with a salt and pepper, high and tight decorating his cranium, just looks at me. I am not the customer he wanted to start his disgustingly early a.m. shift with. In fact i’d go as far as to guess that I’m the last kind of person he wanted to deal with. The kind of person that makes him think past just going through the motions of making a small hot, two and two. It’s too early to be angry for most people. It must be nice.

I wish I knew when I stopped registering other emotions. Is it not that everyone else has changed but that perhaps I changed? That I became grossly, impatiently angry with the entirety of the world. I started reading opinionated narratives and essays, I started forming opinions, I started learning for the first time since high school. But why I am I unable to do so without that strong, bubbling emotion deep within my gut? Other people do it. For all I know, Captain MochaChocoLatte is one of those people. One of those people that don’t need to project their anger on to others in a simple conversation or transaction.

His eyes are dull, tired and look through me rather than at me yet he still doesn’t seem to see anything. I feel for him, deep down inside. He probably works this job to go to another job just to go home to his loud, ungrateful children who throw fits and complain about the lack of tech devices in their life. A glance to his hand shows that he’s certainly married which throws my head through another possible story line. I’m a hypocritical asshole at times. I aggravate myself.

“Did you want food with that?” He stares through me with his dead, glossed over brown eyes and his lids slide over them only enough times to keep them from drying up into dust. It’s kind of haunting and certainly depressing. It’s like the effort that’s exuded is far too much to muster. No one blinks this little.

I sigh and look down at the counter, a wave of defeat washing over me and instead of feeling reborn, I’m left with a longing that never goes away. One to feel connected to another human being. With a scary sort of determination, I launch into yet another long winded explanation of why the world sucks as much as it does. It’s one of those moments where I can feel myself hanging, clinging to the last shred of hope I have for a specific situation.

“No, just the coffee please. So yeah, I don’t know, we see each other every day right? So I feel like we can be honest with each other. I’m just so tired of holding out for people to not let me down. It’s not as if I’m asking people to impress me, I’m just asking them to not be so demented. I’m asking them to not let go of things that are important to them or allow those things to vaporize into nothingness. People don’t care enough anymore. Yanno what I’m saying?”

He presses the styrofoam cover to the cup, sealing the heated liquid life force inside. His eyes look up from the cup and fall on me again. I smile what I imagine, is a sad and yet hopeful smile that he strikes down with a dull, unimpressed look into my soul. “Have a day… ma’am.”

Ma’am? A day? I sigh heavily, slide my fingers along the warm vessel and turn on my heals. Fuck it, right? Fuck it.

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