___________
Well, it’s 2am, which could only mean one thing I’m working. The front desk job is not helping at all with the bout of insomnia I’ve been having. I never thought I would say it, but I hate fucking school and just want to drop out, living in my car off McDonald’s food and poetry writing. Maybe I’ll skip down to Mexico and die of exposure, like my prot�g� (Neal Cassady). Other than the normal depression (angst) I’m all peaches and cream.
I find it odd writing letters at this time of day. Maybe I know that they will probably never be sent, but more likely it is because I know when I wake up (that is if I go to sleep) I won’t be the same person. I’ve found that I’m happier with my fa�ade then I am with myself, which causes problems beyond my rational train of thought at the moment. As it has shut down, uncoupled, and garaged sleeping peacefully wishing my body would join it.
I’ve also found myself considering something, which a friend once told me, “kisses used to mean something.” Why I remember I don’t know. Still, I’m drawn to believe that yes kisses did mean something, or should mean something still. Yet, I’ve never felt the faint mystic power of a physical connection. I’ve never been in love, and mostly likely will die without ever feeling its affects. In fact, I wish that I were chaste as Hippolytus, who spat in the face of Aphrodite. Yes, to you love, I bid you a long goodbye.
Still, I should not find myself so dreadfully alone in the few waning seconds before I sleep. And I do question my own sanity because of this. Is it love that makes us human, or are we human because we love? In which case, I am neither.
There are a million things I want to say. My mind is a myriad of thoughts and complex mathematical equations (last time I do Calc II after midnight). I felt the rush of warm air and knew that it was spring anew. I want to feel the slight caress of the girl I gave up on before I knew her. I want to drag the knife one more time down my triceps to see if I still bleed, to feel the pain, to feel anything instead of nothing, my hollow shell in the great social masquerade ball.
pat williams
spring 2001
