Sand-Bag
It’s been a while since I’ve written anything coherent. It feels like I’ve been unnecessarily verbose in the walls of my own brain that sometimes I need to ask myself to shut up. On those nights where I’m wistfully longing for half-way hedonism, I just can’t hang out with myself. It’s not cool. I wouldn’t lease those vice-grips to anyone that I love, yet I choose to punish myself with me. There’s this long-standing malignant crusade raging in my head-space between my ego and the tranquil sage that I’ve dreamt up out of necessity. It blazes on like a Saigon monk from 63'. Ironically enjoying swimming in its own crossfire, and self-immolating to embellish a fire that’s been put out. Ha.
Would I be better off hugging myself like I’ve been preached to by the sermons of the faux-colgate preachers that are usually crying out for cyber-corroboration? It’s called a ‘feed’ for a reason, right. This nimble body that I prod around from dimly lit cul-de-sacs to over-powered battle stations and seedy smoke sessions, this 20-something kid’s life that I rigorously make sure to not fuck up — I like him. I’m doing it for his sake. I promise. Still I hold him back at every quarter-mile. I reset his braggadocio at the dainty sound of ‘checkpoint reached’. No one knows you’re six-foot tall when you’re sitting down. It should be a sin to keep shoving quarters into the needy deep-throated jukebox of affirmation. There’s literally no version of heaven that I would pay a cover charge for — that would allow a man to look in the mirror eight times a day. So I won’t.
You know what? That ticking-noise is ticking me off though. I can sense that the hourglass of my sand-bagging tendencies are slowly alchemizing into quicksand, whirl-pooling me into nonchalance & mediocrity. Hypnotizing that green-eyed baby who licks her lips at men who yap about themselves would be like playing 98' on amateur mode. I still won’t do it though. A humble-brag is a brag nonetheless. It’s just not me.
For the greased-gel bravado merchants, the self-promoting anti-adroit, the petty, the Tom’s, the yawns, the dressed-up children, and the self-serving NPC’s I will be forced to break bread with until I live out my short time in the cosmos– the gig is up. Back the fuck up. I’m sorry — I can’t let you get away with it anymore. Your navel-gazing is standing in the way of us cutting off our umbilical cords. But for you- the ever-doubtful over thinker who’s painstakingly trying to click away at those treacherous voices — I love you. I’ll let you defeat me 3–0 any day. When you fatality me I’ll high-five you. I crave to be figure-four leg locked by your adorable dubiety. I’ll bring the crimson bottle-rocket to your emancipation party. GG, WP.
As of now my Uncle Oscars seem disgustingly silver-coated, while in reality they should be glistening like Frank’s left ear, twinkling unabashedly with no fear or resentment. Delusion is ultimately an under-the-counter sedative exclusively meant for the unenlightened. I don’t need that hit. They’re already addicted, while I merely experimented with its high. So I’ll concede for now. I’ll be content being slightly ashamed of victory. I’ll keep popping up in vibey cameos while letting the extras believe that they’re the protagonists. But when the final curtains roll, I ensure you that they’ll be crisply edited out of the cutting room floor. These are those extra scenes that play out after the honeyed soundtrack-logos glide by. This is the one promise I can’t force myself to cachinnate away. This is that pyramidal dune-buggy that my sandbag will actualize.
Until then, my dark M-40’s and this cozy hammock will do just fine.
