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Chaos

If I don't forget, I'll never remember.

I don't know why this is. Everyone else tells me it's my imagination, but I know it ain't so. Imagination? I've never had an imagination, not that I can remember anyway. I've only had myself, and what goes on around me.

At least it's sequential, what I lose. I remember about twenty year's worth. I'm slowly starting to forget my college years. My pride at graduation is still there, but why in god's name I started the economics degree is a mystery. It all being sequential means that I know that in a couple weeks I'll forget how I met Andrea. She was in my class before that but in the two weeks I still remember, we ignored each other completely. One day, while in section, we said the same thing at the same time - referring to Sartre - and I took her out the next day. We fell deeply in love, which lasted for six months before we went our separate ways.

She was good in bed. I cling to that, I don't know why. It will vanish with the rest. The first time, fumbling in her darkened dorm room, was unexpectedly pleasurable. Since then, I've never had such a good first time. Before then, I haven't a clue. That could even have been my first. If so, I didn't tell her so. I don't think so. We were clumsy, but not that clumsy.

In about three weeks I'll lose that. Slowly, all the little bits and pieces against which I measure myself will drift away. You stand there and shake your head. I'd like to see you cope with the condition. I've had doctors examine me. They heard me out, performed a perfunctory examination, and unanimously referred me to psychiatrists, but it's not all in my head. It is all in my head, I mean, but not in that way. It's real. It's physical. It's got to be.

I had it pretty good, in those days. Bright days full of promise, yadda yadda, all that. Why would I want to give that up? Why would it comfort me to know that all fades in the end, or the beginning?

It gives me a strange feeling of complacency. I know that everything I do, everything that goes on around me, is impermanent. Strangely confidence-building, after the first shock of realization. I've never been afraid to approach anyone. Why would I be? Whether I succeed or fail, it will all go away in the end. Twenty years to the day and I won't remember the attempt, a bit more to forget my reaction to the attempt.

It's not a bad premise, Mrs. Conclusion, but it lacks spark to it. I've done enough on that theme for a while. It's also been kinda done before around me. Don't worry about it. You're not trying to create great art, you're trying to scribble a few thoughts down on paper before they fly away in the windy willows. Burn, baby, burn.

I am really hungry. I don't know why, it makes no sense. Did I stretch my stomach last night? Is it food goblins trying to escape? It was good. It was all good. All of it. It. You. Me. A. Sentence. Made. A. Word. At. A. Time. Breaks up the writing style. I'm sure I could use it for something. Maybe the speech of someone. Let me see. "Come. Before. Me. Mortals." Something longer. "Four. Score. And. Seven. Years. Ago. Our. Forefathers. Gave. Birth. To. A. New. Nation." Dull, after a while. Not too much, or the interesting breakup of words becomes the dull breakup of words and you'll lose your reader's attention completely.

I see a blue reflection off my sunglasses which are on the front of my shirt, one of the headpieces tucked into the shirt. The blue reflects the computer screen, which, I've come to realize, is also blue. Always blue. Green, maybe, instead? A dull pink? A magenta and gold theme? Why? I like blue. Blue is the color of purity, democracy, entertainment, and communism. Why shouldn't I stick with blue?

It's the same, it's all the same, you never change, you're all the same. Stuck in a rut, stuck in a rut, a neverchanging neverflowing nevermoving nevermore rut. Bleah. It's interesting, that I can quote so compactly. Bleah is a theft (a quote! an homage!) to Doonesbury, no, to Bloom County. It's not that I have anything against bastards, I just think they should stick to their own side of the fence, and we'll all be much better off. Chew betel root, why don't they. Stain their teeth. Stain your teeth. Feel the inconsequence of your own actions. Florida oranges are made in style. _My_ style.

Nonsense will get me nowhere except for timewasting. You done good to go with an idea starting off, and then it petered out of steam, so you kept writing. I would have preferred it if you had kept writing something instead of this nothing, but hey, I'm not expecting treason and promises from you, just a half hour a day, all day, every day. Well, not all day. All day would be more than half an hnour. hour. Hour. You know what the hell I'm trying to say. You're in on it too, aren't you. AREN'T YOU? Admit it! With your cold, flabby arms, and your cold, flabby hands, you'd be just as satisfied if it all went Straight To Hell, right?

Well, cope. You've got to write, if only to make sure those bastards know that they're not gonna Keep The Man Down. No, wait, they're the man, so they should know that The Man Isn't Gonna Keep Me Down. Yeah. Yar! PIRATEY GOODNESS!

I'll be good, you lunatic. I'll be good. You have nothing to worry about, nothing to fear (except, of course, for fear itself, but then, you know that, it's another quote, from FDR probably I think. I'm still hungry. Sitting here typing when I could be snacking is sheer torture. But I have to. I have to write. Write write write. Anything is better than not writing. (Anything is better than writing, a rebellious part of me shivers, but I shout it down. And watch the clock. Is it a half hour yet? No. How about now? No. Now no now no now no no no. GAH!)

After months of this, I'll have paragraphs and paragraphs of nothingness. It'll be just like Sex in the City.