Lustful dreaming, writing scheming

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The dancing girl swings her hips to the rhythm of modern pop while I watch from afar, unnoticed but intent on communication.

When I begin to walk over, I’m in ecstasy of her walk, her talk, her smile. That smile . . . it’s the kind of smile that any man would like to be shown, even on a bad day. Because when there is no hope, a smile like that, with eyes that laugh and penetrate, could make anyone think there was something better . . . just so long as that smile is for me.

When I said hello, she acknowledged me with a nod and disappeared into the darkness of Lady Gaga’s wailing. I wondered if it may have been different if I had said something besides ‘hello’ but without a contraption that would allow me to travel back to that moment of lustful purpose, I could only wonder.

And so it starts. . .endless beginnings of half-written sentences which swirl in my head like a psychotic washing machine who gave up trying to please the owners of the clothes it was destined forever to clean. The notebook, which I held once, is my last concrete dream I still keep. All the others have vanished.

The cigarette that I light burns a pleasant billow of smoke in my mouth. I exhale as if my life were dependent on the nicotine. I cough a little and spit out some tar wondering, as I always do when brown mucus spills from my mouth, why I do this. The answer lies somewhere back in high school when I was trying to fit in. It never worked, but I did gain some friends—good and bad—and I gained a few more and lost a few so I guess it evened out.

I try to move my pen in a pattern that creates words, but instead I doddle a picture of a man with glasses who stares angrily back at me from the lined paper. He knows who I am; perhaps he is the only one who does. I stare back at him as if in contest, but I lose when I see his image blur into a picture of someone I’ve lost. I close the book and throw it across the room. That’s when I decide that I’ve done enough writing for today.
I throw cold water on my face trying not to sulk, but give up when reality hits me—again. When I gave a shit before, I lost my mind. I decided, at that moment, to give up everything. I tried smoking away my emotions—didn’t work. So, in the end, I had to drink the whiskey. In the end, I had to pop that pill. And when it was all over, I breathed a sigh of relief as I drifted back to where I came from.

(by the way I know the image makes no sense with this, but I was too lazy to find something else.)

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