"Away from the things of man, my love. Away from the things of man."
- Joe vs. the Volcano
I once knew a man named Carlos. A good opening that. He was an assistant manager at the theater. A 6'6" black man, always in stylish cuts and he loved to hit the dance clubs. The absolute epitomy of trend. A good man. One day he disappeared. He was supposed to show at work and didn't. And he didn't for days. Didn't even pick up his paycheck. Eventually the topic of him died down, but I never found out what happened. I still wonder. I like to think that something in him just snapped, something just flicked, and he took off for parts unknown. And I would very much like to do that.
Deep in the marble tribal pillars of myself, I feel this urge. I would like to step out of work someday, step into my car, step on the gas and just drive. Forward. And never back. Just keep going until the roads have no names and the signs are rusted and bullet-ridden. Until the car runs out of gas, dies, falls to rust, disintegrates with entropy and chaos. Disappear into the mist. Fade.
I can imagine the lives of those around me. "What happened to Patrick?" they would ask. And knowing their minds, it would be two or three days until someone called the apartment to check. Just my rude and curt answering machine. The cell phone? The voice mail. No email. No smoke signals. Just Patrick gone. I think the best lasting memory I could leave in the minds of those I know is that of an unfinished mystery. Not a bang, not a whimper, just an "oh, well then...huh?" Very much the sigma summation of my existance.
I have a theory. In a very Warhol-esque fashion, I believe that each person is allotted a certain amount of happiness. 15 minutes per se. The number is unimportant and I'm too lazy to do the math. But each person gets only so much. But some people have more happiness than others. It is assymetric. And I think that if the happiness of those around me requires that I toil in misery and drudge, then I will take one for the team. People, take that which is offered to you. Live. Live in happiness if you can. There are those that can not, and they are doing it for you. The Alamo of the soul. Though I hate the word soul....
I make no promises of this blog. I do not even know if I will ever post another. And I personally don't care what the internet community at large thinks of my thoughts. This is close as I can come to sending my thoughts to the electronic void, and much of this rant has been less eloquent than I originally intended, though much can be said the same for my life. When/If I do this again, I will try to lead with a movie quote. That, at least, should be some cheap form of entertainment.
I once knew a man named Carlos. A good opening that. He was an assistant manager at the theater. A 6'6" black man, always in stylish cuts and he loved to hit the dance clubs. The absolute epitomy of trend. A good man. One day he disappeared. He was supposed to show at work and didn't. And he didn't for days. Didn't even pick up his paycheck. Eventually the topic of him died down, but I never found out what happened. I still wonder. I like to think that something in him just snapped, something just flicked, and he took off for parts unknown. And I would very much like to do that.
Deep in the marble tribal pillars of myself, I feel this urge. I would like to step out of work someday, step into my car, step on the gas and just drive. Forward. And never back. Just keep going until the roads have no names and the signs are rusted and bullet-ridden. Until the car runs out of gas, dies, falls to rust, disintegrates with entropy and chaos. Disappear into the mist. Fade.
I can imagine the lives of those around me. "What happened to Patrick?" they would ask. And knowing their minds, it would be two or three days until someone called the apartment to check. Just my rude and curt answering machine. The cell phone? The voice mail. No email. No smoke signals. Just Patrick gone. I think the best lasting memory I could leave in the minds of those I know is that of an unfinished mystery. Not a bang, not a whimper, just an "oh, well then...huh?" Very much the sigma summation of my existance.
I have a theory. In a very Warhol-esque fashion, I believe that each person is allotted a certain amount of happiness. 15 minutes per se. The number is unimportant and I'm too lazy to do the math. But each person gets only so much. But some people have more happiness than others. It is assymetric. And I think that if the happiness of those around me requires that I toil in misery and drudge, then I will take one for the team. People, take that which is offered to you. Live. Live in happiness if you can. There are those that can not, and they are doing it for you. The Alamo of the soul. Though I hate the word soul....
I make no promises of this blog. I do not even know if I will ever post another. And I personally don't care what the internet community at large thinks of my thoughts. This is close as I can come to sending my thoughts to the electronic void, and much of this rant has been less eloquent than I originally intended, though much can be said the same for my life. When/If I do this again, I will try to lead with a movie quote. That, at least, should be some cheap form of entertainment.
Life would be easier if we could fade at will. Not die, not pass to other realms or other sci-fi jibberish. But just fade. Disappear into nothing. These days I feel I should fade. That this all to earthy and earthly body of mine should remove its profanity from the face of this place. Thin without a whisper, without a sound. Just erased. Removed. Away from the things of man...
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