Musing: While listening to Radio Ballet

Why do I do this to myself? While I try to appear stoic, calm, cool, collected, I cannot help but to feel a potpourri of emotions. I am in an empty room, listening to a bittersweet piano tune, looking at blank walls with shadows where pictures once hung. I am finished, and I am plugged into the white walls as my fingers touch each key of my white computer, which connects to the white wall with a white cord.

I cleaned out the room today; I threw away remnants of the past year, while keeping things, memories that I wanted to remember down the road. I have yet to say goodbye to anyone, and I do not know if I will say goodbye anyway. I did not say farewell to my roommate, but rather received a text message from her saying she was leaving. I respond through a few finger strokes, wishing her well, sending hopeful remarks to her much the same way as I am writing this. And there. It's over. Will I ever see her again? I am not entirely certain.

I had a dream last night. In it, a man was in a train station (which one I cannot recall), and trains were coming and going, coming and going. The massive bullets would slowly enter, drop off a crowd of people, and begin to part, taking people with it. The mass movement of people occurred for several hours, all while the man stood amongst the masses, hat in hand, puzzled. Coming and going was random yet certain, and he had no idea from where he was coming and to where he was going. To busy himself, he picked up a newspaper and sat on a bench. Distraction. He read about current events, but occasionally the sunlight would seep through the thin paper and he could see others. Others coming, others going. He saw clasped hands, he heard the warm sound of two fabrics rubbing against each other as two friends would embrace, he heard the footsteps of four feet coming closer and closer together, their stop, and their eventual steps going apart. The man looked to his feet. He had shiny black leather boots, and he could see his reflection. The man folded his newspaper matter-of-factly, placed it in his right arm, grabbed his briefcase, and walked. He heard his two footsteps, not coming, not going, not meeting two other footsteps. He walked, and walked. The train station soon became empty.

This is where my dream becomes unclear. While walking down the dark blue hall, the man decides to walk on the train tracks. Holding his hat, he jumps down the platform without minding the gap. He jumps into the gap. The tracks and gravel mute his footsteps. A voice calls down to him: "You have, you know."

The man looks up.

"There are those steps in your life, those others you desire. You have them."

He looks into the distance. A white light is slowly growing.

"Turn back," the voice says.

The man stops. The white light grows closer.

He looks up. Infinite darkness. He looks behind. Painful silence. He looks forward. The white light grows closer.

The empty walls begin to buzz; ceramic tiles begin to fall and shatter on the marble floor. The white light grows closer.

He falls to the floor, dropping his hat, dropping his newspaper, covering his chest. The white lights blind him. He hears the roaring engine of the train. The white light grows closer.

The voice makes a final plea. The man's eyes are illuminated. The train pushes forward, the white light is gone. The train station is pitch once again. Morning brings the light, and people come and go.

What a way to start off a summer. I'm getting stoned.

Musing: at an early evening cafe

I am having a difficult time caring about any of this, unfortunately. So instead of studying urban ecology and how borders help "define" a people, I will write about my day. Currently, I am sitting outside, alone, writing this. Obviously. I would really like to have something significant or profound to say about my day, however that would require something significant or profound to have occurred. I'm not a good liar, so any sensationalized accounts of mine would be very easy to see through. For example, if I said that moments prior to this, when I was buying my iced coffee, the dark and enigmatic barista asked me for my phone number in addition to the standard "Would you like room for cream?" that I proceeded to jump on the counter, spilling the carefully disheveled granola display, and while kissing his sensuous lips, I lightly scratched my chin on his five o' clock stubble, I would be lying.

The truth is that he is no Byronic hero, beautiful with a touch of neuroticism, he is just your standard tattooed "intellectual" with a beer gut and a penchant for Palahniuk (although from his appearance, I'm almost certain he has only watched half of "Fight Club" before losing interest and changing his profile picture on his MySpace). And suffice it to say, I did not pounce him. Even if his name was Heathcliff and he looked remotely like Benjamin Bratt, I would never have the strength to do anything of the sort; I would most likely only be able to squeak a "Thanks," before turning the color of a freshly cooked shrimp and drowning in my own sweat. C'est la vie.

Anyway, on to my day. I began this morning tangled in my sheets, with a thin layer of filth and sweat covering my frame. I must have turned the air conditioner off last night--the "gentle" buzz of steel machinery I find to be quite haranguing and obviously not so soporific--however in my dream state, the only thing I recall is having a nightmare that while in a drunken stupor, my childhood friend fell off a balcony and died. Perhaps I should have left the machine on.

Before I continue, I must disclose that a group of scuzzy meth addict lookalikes have seated themselves close to me--consequently making me more anxious and aware of the fact that I am here, alone, at dinnertime.

Continuing. My roommate wakes approximately the same time as I do (odd, for neither of us has set an alarm), and I greet the day with a grimace. I am sweaty, my hair is a mess, and the first person I see when I rise is my acne-speckled roommate. What a fantastic Tuesday. She tries to laugh about the humor of our coinciding circadian rhythms. I shrug, feign a smile, and flop back into the twisted sheets. I refuse to get ready with her--the image of two roommates rising together, getting ready together, eating together, et cetera et cetera, makes me want to gag. So, I continue to lie in the bed, floundering in the wrinkled sheets, pretending to sleep so that my roommate would not pester me. Obviously, this sleep was not quite rapturous.

I grow rather hungry, and rather impatient waiting for her to leave. She takes forever to do anything; she is the epitome of sloth. However, after approximately an hour, my speckled-sloth roommate leaves the room, leaving her tacky rainbow bed unmade. I am finally able to rise. Usually, I leave two minutes for her to to return for a forgotten item before I rise, so that she will not think I wait for her to leave. But this morning was not the case.

I craved one of her peanut granola bars, and my stomach certainly was barking. I hopped out of my bed with great ease, and reached the bottom drawer of her particle board desk. My eyes went immediately to the shiny orange plastic. Ravenously, I ripped it open and took a hard, crunchy bite. I closed my eyes, and relished in the buttery and grainy goodness. All of a sudden, the doorknob began to twist, and I made awkward eye contact with the pimply sloth, her partially-eaten granola bar in my mouth. Dismayed at my bêtise, I stupidly turned my back to her, as if the act of rotating my body would make me immune to her judgments, statements, and equal-but-opposite reactions. To my delight, the sloth did not speak. In fact, she didn't do anything; she left. Looking back, this makes me more irritated, for I feel as if her return was made without purpose. I resent her for impeding upon my breakfast experience.

Anyway, soon after I felt compelled to dissemble my room (we move out tomorrow), and the agonizing and cumbersome task of lugging all of my shit into the car awaited me. The process was quite madefied, for not only did it begin to rain, but I overfilled my bags with thick and heavily-bound books, so each bag weighed...a lot. I worked up quite the sweat; each trip I had the misfortune of seeing my slovenly Ex staring blankly into his computer. I miss nothing about him; I only miss the constant attention. Oh, wait. I don't even miss that.

More and more groups are coming to the patio; I am more self-aware. I feel like hiding away like Greta Garbo...eyes are pecking away at my skin and all of a sudden I feel quite itchy. But why do I care? The people who surround me do not care about me, and I do not care about them. A couple is engaged in a rather sensual embrace to my left as we speak--I am even more itchy now. I must go, but where? I do not know. Certainly not here. Not only do I itch but my eyes feel as if they are about to bleed from the painful sight in front of me (two sizes too small white shorts overstuffed with a rear the texture of the moon--think craters and pockmarks). Said individual has a rather obnoxious laugh. I am annoyed, and I didn't even finish writing about the day. She smokes one of those cigarettes from the black and pink packages to seem more "raw" and "jaded." Please, she probably thinks that Kierkegaard is some kind of über-hip European shoe designer.

I've had enough.