Yung uns

I will have you know that some of the most awesome people in the world are really old.
I routinely indulge...YES INDULGE.. in bizarrely vague as well as strictly systematic intellectual quirpy, irony-laced, skeptically hopeful, insightful, introspective, profound, extremely profound conversations with OLD PEOPLE. OLD People are AWESOME. I ditched my best-friends one time, to stay at their place to have a long inconsequential conversation with the grandfather. He was really cool okay... Better than a trip to the DVD store and garlic mayo fries. I mean...Can we rename old people as Rhetoric Machines....or ...Anecdote Treasure Chests.... Normal kids dream about their dream fantasy foot-ball team or Awesome Super-Rock Band... I want to hold a workshop. With a panel. And on that panel I want Umberto Eco, Chomsky, Anwar Maqsood and Zia Mohyeddin...and say something like..... "Satire...Discuss"......... *SITS BACKS WATCHES THE MAGIC*


Buttttt I doooonnntttt waaaannnnaaaaa turrrnnnnn 20!
Ugh...Man-child.


Danial keeps bugging me that I can't be a dinosaur.
Well fuck you guys!
It has already been established that on a blog, for me to definitively state that which I am is a lost cause.
But I realize that the non-egotistical side of my intellect, comes from a a very curious and blunt inner-child who broadens my perspective greeeeeeaaaaaaaatttttttlllllllllyyyyyyyyyyyyyy. 


Dear inner-child, I know I'm 19 years too late..But do you need some fudd? Oh...*poke* Goddamnit ...The box said food-for-thought was enough....


We were doing free-writes.
A couple of friends and me.
They are younger than me.
Yes I get along with younger people.
But I felt sooo old. For the first time. I mean, there is a limit to how much you can ride the mentor band-wagon. 


Fine so the idea was that you had to keep writing. Freely. And I was so slow on the uptake. And was so skeptical I was. Which I am usually not with poetry. But I was. It was this annoying persistent tick. A yearning for a system. I mean...FREE WRITE? What gives.
And there they were so full energy jumping around.
And I was searching awkwardly inside my head: I NEED a smoke, I wonder when my next Law class is, maybe I should wear socks!, If I rhyme this line I'll create the ABB structure which I do not want, what the hell?, Maybe holding a cat will inspire me!...


I mean....I put the Aneous in Spontaneous.....Or I used to...


And Contextual Literary Reference Plagiarism is something that bothers me!
I told them this.
*blank*
I will elaborate on this later... It has become quite common... I will explain this new phenomenon... But see?????? Stuff like this bothers me now. The extent of my previous oldness was calling stuff that other people liked overrated (which I have healed from and would like some appreciation).


But seriously! It is as though I have been growing older without  knowing it.
I do not age.... I procrastinate :(     
I mean life is fun, there is so much I wanted to have done by now...  


Hence the name change. Can't cling on to Adolescence anymore. But...


Bitch please, I will always be a dinosaur.
Rawr x)

Writhe

Hospital rooms are very comfortable places if you're one to exploit sickness to its fullest. He was. Let us imagine:

That the windows, which ordinarily bestow a pleasant view of expensive real-estate with green trees and a reasonably tended duck-infested pond, WERE TO SHUT WITH THE MANIFESTATION OF TONNES OF LAYERS OF IRON FORGED INTO AWESOME TOTALITARIAN BLOCKADES WHOSE VERY PRESENCE SETS AFLAME THE CURTAINS ONLY TO TESTIFY TO THE AWESOMNESS OF THAT WHICH HAS JUST SET IT AFLAME!

The seal on his windows by this sheet of collossal density appeared to have been constructed out of the carcass of a warship hull. The exact reason or unfortunate coincidence of this would dawn in a minute. Bolts intimidatingly tight prevented the passage water as well as air:

THOSE VENTS WHICH ON THE FIRST TWO DAYS MADE HIM UNEASY AND PARANOID ENOUGH TO SUSPECT THAT HE WAS BEING SPIED ON ARE NOW THE EXTENSION OF SOME INDUSTRIAL GRADE SUCTION PUMP.

And before the patient knew exactly what was transpiring, the air was sucked out his room. Completely. The grandeur of the flaming curtains lessened as the lack of oxygen extinguished them. They swished quite languidly, perhaps suspending their own disbelief: Hospitals usually use blinds.

What vaccuum could be conjured in such apocalyptic fashion being accepted for what it is, without question? The desire to breathe is a very motivating in dispelling curiosity it seems. The patient wasted no time in trying his door. It was open.

A long corridor, cinematically tainted a grim blue with a shimmering light?

We'll see how perceptive a pseudo-intellectual is when you cut his air off.

There it was a deserted brightly lit and pleasant hospital corridor: a vacuum. In a vacuum:

You do not explode. Your blood does not boil. You do not freeze. You do not instantly lose consciousness.

You do not instantly lose conciousness! You do not! The patient realized this for every second that he looked a down a brightly lit and pleasant hospital corridor. For every second that a traffic of million thoughts conducted itself at warp speed inside his head. For every second that his nerves descended into an animalistic  turgidity. 

It has been only 15 seconds since the air has left the building. 

Realization is a beautiful thing.

Down that same corridor lay the means to stay conscious.

The vacuum was not absolute; so the patient found out by entering every door. He had but a precious second to inhale before the air was sucked out of every room.


The patient was subject to the human search of help; the subconscious inability to accept that any second we could be completely alone. Okay, fine. He's paying a lot for intensive care in a Hospital...not that unreasonable to expect assistance.  'YOU ARE ALONE YOU MOTHERFUCKER! YOU BETTUH EVOLVE! YOU BETTUH!' bellowed the speakers as though singing the awesome part from Ace of Spades by Motorhead.


 The patient did not even have the sense to define his predicament as a vacuum as a seeping irritation descended in his ears while he stumbled across room for room. Disbelief etched into every speck of redness in his eyes. He felt the pressure on his skull, of a thousands yawns at once as he scavenged for air.The end of the corridor was right there with a door. Not an ominous door in itself but carried for the patient the immense burden of the unknown; of the beyond. He never tried to vault through immediately while there was air to be had in every room.

Before going ahead, the patient would have ordinarily (as ordinary as this situation could be made) taken a deep breath. He sadly substituted this with putting his head momentarily against the door. He wedged down the steel-rod and ventured forth!

Immediately there was a gust of air in his face! A frosty stale smell of old cold air, without regard for his weariness, slamming itself into him. Breathable air! A cold mix of industrial and organic wastes made into a  gas! Breathable! He descended down the stairwell. It was slippery. He tested the air as he treaded carefully.

The smell was not sharp, a dull smell not kind enough to dull him. The patient descended with a disgust not for the smell but with the idea of getting used to it. 

He grasped at the railing and felt the icy sliminess that he found at his feet. Such sadistic a cold it was that remained in his feet as the cold slime clung onto him. A cruel cold that does not freeze the slime completely, a cruel cold that is not sharp enough to keep him alert, a cruel cold without the decency to numb him. A cold that absorbed him into itself and yet not drain him. A cold that was here to stay and was distinct from the smell that the gas had within. A component of the gas he breathed as he went. The patient was dizzied not by the odour or the cold as he was by the dynamics of their presence. The degree of their impact on the constitution of his environment... Ratios. Now of all damn times. 

Chapped. Chapped to the core he was as he stumbled to the middle of the stairwell. He looked down in the center of the stairs to see how far down he had yet to go. He didn't know that he was in the line of fire of the source of the smell. He puked. A lot. There he lay with his stomach pinned on the railing, his hands barely gripping it, belching away his survival instinct...

There shot down from above, in the same center of the stair-well...his own puke...which he puked down...on his head...from above...fancy that? 

He lazily gritted his teeth...almost in anger breathing from his mouth his teeth wedged together tightly...

Slipping down the stairs was a regular occurrence after every few steps...the icy railing made his skin stick...every time he slipped, he ripped off tiny bits of his skin...pleasant tingling sensations...

Another door...

He fell against it... Unsure and unaware. Let there be relief...

He didn't remember pushing down the handle...perhaps because he did not feel himself doing it...


Normal air at room temperature.
It was a generic room. As generic as a generic room could be...with a sound vacuum..
The remains of slime on his bare soles slid him across the generic floor of the generic room. The screech echoed throughout the room and left as alone as he was before. 


There he sensed a presence...A faint thing with existence...Existence: a faint thing...
It was there but only just...Or are generic rooms alive?
Beating...Existing in beats. Less faint as he walked across like a refugee...A source of something was as good as anything. 


He was barely alone! He did not know what a paradox he was about to be faced with...Something that would  be a sign of life yet the deadest form of loneliness....An empty solitary wall, generic...A wall-clock...The heart of the generic room. The beating source...ticks...so many ticks. Every tick now causing ripples across empty space, infecting it with claustrophobia...


He slid across the wall and sat down. A generic fall for the defeated man. 
In a few hours he would wake up the same patient of a generic malignant tumor the size of a pea in his normal hospital room...He would stab himself in the brain...He hated details.