Structure, truth, what are these things, This one will be different this time he thought to himself as he carried the wet bag into his dingy room. He sat down and looked at himself in the mirror. It needed cleaning. The moisture from the bag was starting to drip onto the floor and caught his attention. How did he always dream his way back into this rotten room full of romantic memories, and well-savored self pity? It was yellow just like
Raskolnikov's room. But
Raskolnikov had a fever, this room was real, was really yellow. The bugs stood out against the color. If it were darker, then he would never know.
There must be something or someone to love in
this awful world he though to himself. He reached inside the bag and pulled out a magazine. Cracked magazine, He
laughed out loud, It was funny, bu not for the reason that it should be. He paged through the magazine, and realized he
loved the feel of it the smell of it , the style of the art... it didn't really matter what they drew. It was a comfort.
Everything was a
comfort, or an ego builder, he
would get that fear in his legs that would tell him so. He would be great. who
could stop him? He had a library book with him too, and picked that up to the exclusion of the magazine. It was about ancient civilizations. What could
possibly be more interesting? It must be interesting. He read it for a while. The time span was amazing. The early forms of writing caught his attention. He was
ok with other languages, and this also felt like cracking an interesting code. The people of the past must have been glamorously different and had something amazing to say. Even if they hadn't it was something like crawling through humanity's attic
while no one was watching-
irresistible. He was losing interest, and becoming uncomfortably aware of the fact that he was hoping to impress someone, even if he only
impressed himself. That was what he was always looking for- a way to find out who the hell he was. It was
embarrassing- everyone around him seemed so sure about who they were
and what they thought, he felt he was obligated to be the same way, but
even though he was only about 20 years old, he had already been dozens of people. Every scientist, every movie star, every author, every musician, even a few painters. He was all of them , but then he would tire of that identity,
and be left with a gnawing
emptiness- who the hell was he really? Maybe he
had no identity. Some people could be like that. I guess there are some who would like to call it a kind of mental illness. He wasn't dangerous though-
only to himself. He was very talented at finding ways to destroy himself disguised as wise ideas. He suddenly stood up. He could feel more confident by
surprise movements, even if he was accomplishing nothing. He grabbed the
refrigerator door and grabbed a beer. He was running out- only six left. As an afterthought he reached back and grabbed the damp bag and
tossed it into the refrigerator while opening the beer with his teeth, He laughed. Maybe that was who he was- a unique rebellious chaotic individual. At least for the moment. He plunged into the dirty old chair. His mood was falling again. He was only aware of how it changed when no one was around him, He needed other people
desperately- then knowing who he was
didn't matter at all.
Really he had an identity- in relationship to other. If it was friend or family the role was that of a court jester or boon companion something like that. With strangers he would try to extract respect from them and barring that he would be a very comfortable enemy. He did this automatically, only sometimes sensing it and never being fully aware. It was a nervous
existence. A giant cockroach distracted him from these more like feelings that actual thoughts. Another companion. He wanted to kill the thing but them remembered that the spray only seemed to fuel their fury without killing them. He noticed that there was a container of oven cleaner sitting right next to
the can of Raid. He jumped up, snatched it and then wheeled to face the giant insect. He sprayed a
large layer of foam on the animal. It launched ahead a few inches and then came to a
twitching halt . He
scrutinized it as it continued to jerk in
desperation. "God is to
man as man is to cockroach" He remembered an old saying he had invented. He felt a little compassion for the animal as strange as that might seem. He became aware of how similar this bug's fight for
survival was to that of even a
human's when great
grasp of knowledge or mastery of social
lubrication is no longer important. All animals die in a
similar way. The sun came brightly through his window. He got up to close the blinds and continued to look out the
window for a while. It was nice to smell a little fresh air, but the view was not very appealing. There was
also a thick
smell of grease from the restaurant that was no more than about twenty feet away. He had mixed
feelings about the giant fan on the top- it was noisy but blocked the noise within his own building. He sighed and sat down and put the
tv on.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aX1PwkgwsG0http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SV3IsQlZsiM&feature=relatedhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GaWs79v0ugE&feature=related
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