Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Maybe if I just listen for a little while.

It's a plate of spaghetti, alfredo, lasagna, and salad pieces. Maybe that's a tomato. That is definitely an olive. I think that's ricotta mixed in somehow with lettuce and white messy juice. It's a plate I need to look at because I cannot look up at her.

She's talking to the other guy at the table about poems written by French people I thought were composers. I don't know anything about art or culture. I spent my youth playing with legos and transformers. I spent my teen years playing video games with back stories. I spent my young adulthood playing Christian at a Bible College. I don't know anything about art or culture or poetry written by romanticism or despondency. I just know that I can't look up right now.

He's talking to her about essays written by respectable conservative thinkers. Now, this is something I do know about, but it's not enough to pick my head up and talk about things. It's difficult to know what you know is not what others care to know, how what others discuss as worth knowing are things you have no way to know how worth they are for you. Maybe if I just listen for a little while. That olive is definitely not an olive at all, but what else is that color?

There's a bang of a cart striking a door frame. It's a large portable garbage can being directed along by a custodian. He's got a hat on backwards, white translucent gloves on his hands, shoelaces partially untied, and the look like he's holding back a sniffle. Sniffles are accusatory. Without realizing it, I'm also making that face. I'm doomed.

"Are you okay?"


"Is it the alfredo?"

"Is ... what? I'm sorry. I was lost in thinking."

"Oh, sorry. Well anyways, I" and she's off to continue a conversation I can't write down because I can't follow it at all.

I think maybe there was a time in my life where I'd want to learn something new no matter what it was. I think about what it must have been like to be smart and educated and learned. But it's not me. It's just looking at things these days and wondering how deep the mysteries all go. How can you know anything when what you do know ends up wasting away in a locked mind?

Every person I sit next to has a story they start to tell one another, but I don't hear them anymore. They start to talk about literature and I blank. They start to talk about social media and I blank. They start to talk about the end of the world and I blank. The world ended for me a long time ago, but I can't remember how or when. I don't do much remembering these days.

No, that's not right. I don't do much reminiscing these days. I don't sit around and think about the good old days. I don't hold a drink or a joint in my hand and stare out from a chair or couch into the nothing. What I do is look at a blank screen, a blank page, a blank life, a blank world, and I think to myself.

I think about how it will be great when I start to write something on that.

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