A Collection of Spectacles


I did this thing where I described the sounds I’d heard in an hour. Completed a few days ago. Decided to post. Kinda has an incomplete feel but whatever.

It starts with the almost silent, inaudible, barely there sound of air filling my lungs, (or what’s left of them). I once heard that you do not burn holes in your lungs, they are filled with pockets of tar.

Followed by pulsating beats from angered music, which I quickly swap for a more calming tune.

All of this is accompanied by the whir of a fan.

Inside, there is an orchestral piece playing that differs from the noise that surrounds me. My thoughts are moving with rapidity falling without meaning swirling around among gelatinous nerves I am abandoning town soon swapping suburban nothingness the sound of crickets yelping at five in the morning for the ever present soundtrack of cars and planes trannies in heels marking the concrete never sleeping.

A woodpecker knocks on my roof.

A car rushes past. Then, another.

Life on a highway leads to this. Life on a highway leads to unpleasantries.

Since, there is not much audial stimulus, I’m finding, I’ll replay the sounds of yesterday.


Memory induced tinnitus: Metal grates against steel. Hot fenders collide. Everyone screams. Conceptual intercourse, or just another accident on the curb?

“I can’t believe you wrecked my car fuck you you fucking asshole fuck you fuck.”

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We’re  sitting in the car, driving around at night, the dark, all-encompassing, pitch-black sky surrounds us. 

She says, “So what about you, Allie Mason? What’s the purpose in life?” This takes the question I’ve just asked her and turns it around, making me contemplate it, which I don’t like doing. 

“Hmmm. What do I think is my purpose in life? Or the purpose in life in general?” 

She lets me answer both, making it a two part question. 

It’s a little sappy, but I’d like to help people. I really think that’s why I’m here. Not that I think I’m above anyone else in any respect and therefore more able to help, but I’d like to put whatever favorable qualities I do have to good use. 

As far as the purpose of life in general, I think it’s to experience everything on the vast spectrum of emotion. If you don’t know the depths of sorrow and loneliness, then it’s hard to recognize great joy, let alone appreciate it. Additionally, it’s important to meet as many people as possible, see as many places as you can. 

The point of life (from different points of view). Of course I’m shortening each person’s view quite a bit, which doesn’t really do it justice, but here we go anyway:

“To smoke weed and procreate.” Self explanatory? I think so.

“To love fully.”  That’s love in any sense. Love for an idea, an occupation, anything. 

“To leave your stain on the world.”  In essence, to do something that will be remembered. 

“To achieve one epiphany after another.”  To keep growing and changing as a person. Some people may never reach these heights of self awareness, while others may at a very young age. 

In other news: I’m seriously reconsidering whether I want to make Journalism my profession of choice, for multiple reasons. To me, writing is a release. It’s taking pent up feelings that I can’t express adequately otherwise, and making them open for consumption. It’s something that’s more for me than anyone else. I’d like to help others in a more direct way. Also, I’m beginning to get the feeling that if I try to make it a living, I’ll get so caught up in the hidden politics of it all (like changing my work to suit a publisher/editor) that I’ll end up hating the one thing I’m really passionate about.

Ideally, I’d like to become a psychotherapist. I’ve always found both abnormal psychology and examining people fascinating. It’s really geeky, but a few years back I compiled my own book together out of little clippings and things that I’d found on different mental illnesses. Actually, it’s a little creepy. Forget I mentioned it.

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