You and Your Tongues

How many times do you have to look up to the sky and give her a smile then a kiss to start to realize that every inch you take in this ride is another second from the life you could have had? Does it even bother you or reach your senses that everything has just been lost in every second? All the possibilities that exist, have ever existed, or will ever exist, forgotten, trampled over, and murdered by inaction and impossibility. Maybe so, maybe not, I suppose either way the game would have unrolled the way that it did, whichever way that might be.

The last time I saw you I wanted to communicate to you the beauty of your own mind, or of every mind, but not just that, feed your ego almost, see if I could get it up and walking again, even though that seems to end sadly for the most part. (All greedy and greasy by the end of it as if I fed it some shitty hamburger rather than the fine truth.) So what now? Nothing lasted, nothing will last, and I can't help it, but I feel as though you and everyone else and everything else is just a person walking further and further into the horizon until they're just tiny ants on a hill, diving back underneath the dirt and sand and disappearing, as if they were never there to begin with.

I thought that it was time to have a smoke and I didn't even smoke; I would have had to bum a cigarette off of some one, and God knows that would be a lesson of bitchiness for myself. Only women can bum off of people and get away with it; they can pull at their hair and make their eyes shine a if it's nothing. Guys can't do that, so I sat back down into the couch that I was on after getting a refill of coffee. It was terrible. The sun came in through the window and everyone else was just passing me by without a thought on who I was or what I could be, or the thoughts that jumped around in my head. But I wasn't being selfish about it; I do it all the time, even though I try not to most of the time.

I look at all their faces glowing in the sun with sweat and stubble, or old makeup, and I try to think about all the amazing thoughts that must be in their head rolling around with laughter. I can only apply my thoughts into their heads, though, and every time I've ever gone up to some one to ask about it, as rarely as that is, the person has always looked at me like I was some sort of asshole asking to mine the brain cells out of their mind.

These days everyone's defensive; the funny thing is that they actually think it matters.

So I took out a piece of paper and just let it all down, the real nothingness that I was actually thinking about. I mostly think about nothing important, after all, just little segments of visions from a story I have yet to actually create, like some sort of vision into the future of a story, the future of my story; I didn't know, and that didn't matter either. It poured out in groups of words upon words, like bubbles in the surf of the sea that gather around each other as the wave rolls in, and staining the shore.

It was a note to some one, I'd tell you I didn't know who but the real truth was that I knew exactly who it was to, who it should be to, who I wanted it to be to but didn't have enough courage to actually give it to them. I knew that I'd end up keeping it for myself to read, like some prize of cowardice that I could look back on when I'm older and hopefully laugh about because I ended up happy either way. It ended in fake letters, just scribbles.

I looked back up into the cafe and everyone sat there bored on a computer or talking to each other about interesting things, but I knew no one, and all my friends were busy.

I sighed and finished my coffee, then decided to find a secluded spot in the woods some where or walk to the beach to lay down. I decided on the beach; less people bother you there.