A Collection of Spectacles


I’m going to talk about Peter again (briefly) because he makes me think about myself, and because he is one of the most interesting people in my life at the moment, though I’m completely aware of what he’s doing. If I ask him a question, he asks me why did you ask that, what would you gain by me answering that, instead of giving me a straight answer, because he is trained to deflect anything that could be pointed towards him, and throw it back at me so that I can answer my own questions and find out more about myself. I tell him this. I also say that asking a therapist questions is like pulling teeth. I feel gratification when I get a straight answer, when I tear out the tooth.

This seized information is used to create a useless, stippled caricature. Every reply is another dot.

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Caulfield’s Conundrum: It’s one of life’s unanswered questions, the ponderance of which is heavy enough to crush boulders, fracture bones. At what point, during the trek towards adulthood, do we decide to give up, incinerating all we’ve learned in the process? I fear that I, like many others, will eventually trade in teenage innocence and immaturity for delusions of grander that only mask the hypocrisy and stupidity of the “all mighty” Adult.

Walking around, armed with one eye

cemented shut and a mouth versed in

nonsense, experiencing the same loss

of function that occurs when

brain touches skull.

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Ridiculous Rambling, or a Stream of Consciousness Post: I’m going to write this without going back and fixing anything. I am going to write this without making any corrections or edits. I think that I don’t do enough thinking just for thinking’s sake, and that’s why it takes me such a long time to do anything correctly. By the way, this is all going to sound pretty stupid, so if you don’t want to read anything that sucks then stop right now. I’m only doing this because I’m messing around with different techniques. I’m trying to explore different things as a writer. It’s weird how someone can randomly call themselves a writer or an artist. Those are two of the only professions that you can do that with. You can’t wake up one day and say, “Hi. I’m a doctor now,” but you immediately become an artist the moment you say you are. Peter asked me if I feel like I’m in some sort of crisis, if I feel like some horrible happening in my life brought me to his office. I figure that my crisis is life in general. I think about it a lot, and the more I think about it, the more disgusted I become. I don’t get why other people don’t think about life, how you can go through it without ever wondering why you’re here. Anyway, I’m done talking about myself. I feel like I talk about myself too much. I’ll try talking about less me related things in the future.

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Beyond the silence of the suburbs, encapsulating the ease of a breath, the quietude of a whisper, you lie awake, pressing “symmetrical static uniformity” (the recipe for nothingness) to a bare chest.  On a surreal night, I am crushed by this gentle force, exhibited by a musician whose hands hover apprehensively above keys, right before he commits and places his fingers down.

The spectrum of a sunset is absorbed by porous strands. In the morning, all I see is its radiance.

I’m looking at everyone’s happiness from the other side of a window. No, I’m not shown that much generosity. I’m looking at everyone’s happiness through a crack in a wall that’s barely an inch wide. Living life like a modern-day Mary, only the world is my room.  I’ve put up every boundary myself.

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I’ve been trying to do this for hours. Four typed pages.

“1. Take out a blank sheet of paper or open up a word processor where you can type (I prefer the latter because it’s faster).

2. Write at the top, “What is my true purpose in life?

3. Write an answer (any answer) that pops into your head. It doesn’t have to be a complete sentence. A short phrase is fine.

4. Repeat step 3 until you write the answer that makes you cry. This is your purpose.”

The closest I came was

To live life spontaneously and without regret and to love someone with childlike sincerity.

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