The Choosing Choice
Written to: Chuck Person’s Eccojams Vol. 1
Self-destructing in a manic state of worry. But I’m better now, he thought as the clock ticked the red second hand to the strike of noon, only it wasn’t a strike or a tick. It was just a mechanical motor that never stopped. Goddamn figures of speech. Fuck. Kids in school think it stops at the top because nobody ever looks at the clock after that glorious passing of the 12. Little fuckers. Clocks used to strike. They don’t anymore. Anyway… Fuck where was I? OK I did the time metaphor that comes out in the middle and end. Now I what the fuck do I… Oh yea-The days half-over, the sun is high, and he’s headed to his girlfriend’s house. No, no I’m not he thought. He called her and canceled knowing he should tread lightly after his third cancelation to her company. Girlfriends don’t like that.
He went outside and listened to some music. He lay down on the grass and looked up at the branches above. A fucking green caterpillar fell on his shoulder. They reached farther than he had taken notice of. The branches were thick with leaves but it was March. Seeing and feeling that guy became his favorite nature experience that would last him the rest of his life.
He got up and tried his best to adjust his eyes to the light. He opened and shut them three times after first opening them, just after his Vapor Wave mediation under the tree in the park. St Pepsi was fading. He was coming back.
He looked up at the Toy Story Sky and he thought that’s how it should be. That’s how he liked it, filled with cumulous. They made him feel at ease. He enjoyed slowing down his heart-rate to a slow crawl. It felt like he was getting lighter. Like he might just evaporate into water vapor leaving behind just a mild wake of sorrow and confusion at his sudden but charming disappearance departure. All his responsibilities would melt away, his conscious would join something beyond him, maybe. Probably not.
What could be better than an unconscious-conscious death. Conscious of letting go of everything except the tearing pain. He thought pain is the only consciousness of death. It would be like holding on tight with all your might, veins surfacing close to failure and blue burst, but instead of feeling the loosening of your grip your hand and hold itself would evaporate into everything and nothing effortlessly. What could be better he thought. He knew she would get over him and his parents would say something to themselves like thought it’d be the loony-bin for sure. As would his friends. They were bores but they had balls if that makes sense.
He was weird and sometimes nonsensical and irrational in his beliefs and actions. When he spoke he sounded like he was trying to start a cult. But he wasn’t. He was just trying to positively effect people, but he would fuck the whole world if given the chance. He started to think really really hard and then he opened his eyes to a wide gape and thought, I need to stop listening to music all the time, I’m loosing reality and once you loose reality he thought you can’t it back. So he walked back to his car, called his girlfriend and went over to her house to fuck, watch, talk, and eat with her, almost perfectly in that order.
In bed with her he thought, you only really experience the moments you reserve and retain perfectly outside the moment itself. Right now was where he was and everybody around him would be in the same spot of time with him, but that didn’t mean they would all be thinking about the same time let alone the same thing. He tried to retain this thought but he didn’t have a pen so it went off never to be thought of again by anyone else on the planet for two whole seconds. He wished he’d had a pen.
The next day he started to think for the first time what he should do with his life. Not what he wanted to do but what deep down he thought he could do. He kept on thinking. If he had kept with art he would’ve been a promising liberal arts student but instead of keeping with his pen and paper or learning to paint, he had fallen into the fast pace lure of sweaty sprinting while balls were handled of all shapes and dimensions. Sports is where he lost his artistic ability but built his body to withstand the brutality of injuries awaiting him in the future.
Now it was the future and he decided to be a teacher but after about 5 minutes of thinking it through he sat down and put elbow to knee and palm to chin and started to think about how awful it could be, being forced to put on a performance five days a week for people who don’t care and can’t see past the fact they’re being told what to do by someone less successful less smart less loving and caring than their parents. He thought your parents are the staple of comparison to other adults and finding a way around that good point he had come across would be at least partially impossible. So he thought on.
What about menial labor, working towards a higher goal of pay like a journeyman. No he thought. His frame wouldn’t support the weight of muscle and toil it would take to make menial labor worthwhile. At least he couldn’t be sure. So he thought on.
He started making a list, trying to find the most logical average of three concrete key points he saw as the controllers of his employment philosophy. The first being pay, the second being the people that surround you, the third being happiness. He put happiness third of three measures of importance in finding a form of employment that fit him well enough. He thought about all the things he had ever seen in his future.
He saw being a meth-head and loosing all his mental capacity to an animalistic drive to slowly kill yourself by means of what you crave. It’s almost beautiful he thought, in its ironic simplicity. It’s kind of like a more passionate and personal greed he thought.
He saw being a businessman but once he realized numbers were the businessman’s Bible he again began researching his mind. But finally the answer occurred to him. He would be a sky-diver and teach people how to tame the naked air of the above. But then he thought making a droll from something meant to give you an adrenaline rush of pounding fully dilated life would become more or less un-fun. It was then he discovered the method of the madness was choosing. Plus everytime you go to work is possible death and its not like driving to work. It’s in your face. It’s apparent. Choosing was the major problem.
Resigning himself to one thing, one task, one category even, didn’t fit right. The only thing that made sense would be to choose multiple things at a time. He would be a factotum he thought, like the book he had read because he had seen it at a certain pro surfer’s clothing brand’s site as a necessary carry on to a certain surf photographer. He felt deep down after recalling this last fact and started to cry.
The individuality he clung onto with so much tension of mental and egotistical flex suddenly relaxed. The artistic side of him, the novels he read were being fed to him by mass-market corporate cluster fuck of patterns through corporate priority, unmappable but measureable in discovery. Haha quantum-physics he thought.
He was just a link unutilized by the chain of society because of a personal defect. He thought society offers up a million paths to success and I have picked and chose all the wrong things all the bad information on the same path everyone else travels. His road although less traveled was long and winding to the edge of a fatal cliff.
After realizing he simply was a product of a product society of people entities and material utilized and discarded for a constantly growing flow of production, he wrote a book of pain and attempted triumph that ended in failure and they gave him 20 million dollars and he put a bullet in his brain at age 42 anyway. Happiness wasn’t there at least for him. For me it is. Hopefully it is for you too. I suppose he lost his grip on reality. I guess the moral of the story is don’t wash your hands with soap. Bye bye now