Roaches In The Kitchen

While I sat in my two classes I registered for this Fall, it felt like nobody was as expected of others as me, as I moved in my seat wearily, and adjusted my shirt casually to avoid any fear of self-judgement. Then, it was harboring these dark thoughts I’m about to share, did I recognize, always, I’m trying to be fleshed out: a real character in someone's story, no matter how small the role will last.

When I recall roles naturally recognized among others, big or small, stupid or strict, in my elementary, middle and high school, I couldn’t shake off that no real label was attached to any behavior or phase of my own; and I always felt like a passive observer rather than an active participant. Even the smallest activities I noted in my mind were taken advantage of - geeks, special-needs kids, and maybe annoying, loud jackasses of emo clowns - at least, they were, by the end of these phases, left attractively disembodied and full of ripped personality. I’m sure to many, there is an obvious argument to be made about how nothing lasts from those years of adolescent make-up. And, as grossly I try to think of myself, I still gather thoughts about when to end my life before twenty-four. Sometimes on days when the weather is clear and everyone, even the traffic, feel accomplished to have noticed it’s such a nice day.

Sitting in these two classes for this Fall semester brought a lot of painful memories of how I left myself abandoned in my journey, without anybody I knew outside of my house to share these ideas with. There did come, however, this special vision when being back in class after break from school, as the professor joked, went over the syllabus, and stood rambling on a monologue about previous students before us, I’m sure they rehearsed lightly by now. When the class was dismissed, and when I got in my car to drive home after the University shuttles dropped me off - everything from my music choice paired to my radio, to looking how one vehicle can easily run me off the road and kill me quickly - I suddenly felt pleased where my life sets now, while at the same time, heartbroken no one I knew before high school and after, will be anywhere near to see any of it. And right now, with horror, I know why I’m bothered so much by this, and it's honestly pathetic and sad. Uncanny, I think is the word?

Why does this sound so familiar? I think sarcastically to myself, and remember, as I park my car and go up to the apartment, what I want from McDonalds.

After a while, near ten o’clock, I couldn’t fall asleep, and was glad I wasn’t able to; I always am. I drove to the gym and stayed for an hour and came back, laid on my bed while my mother was already asleep, and began to ramble and wonder if I should walk around UNM, take photographs, or stay inside and watch movies about ghosts, witches, and possessed dolls. Because with an attach of the imagination, including supernatural themes, anything is fun to write about.

There is always a fascination with me, on how I, one day, will experience a psychological phenomenon on my own. To do this, I expose myself to as much symbolism and image of horror, fantasy, and death, to let it all accumulate in my unconscious. In hopes, one day, it’ll explode in a series of inspiration: like a flash of hidden realities, different faces of god, and narratives built on soul and heart, from the depths of my desires and needs. Little me’s playing a small role in everything, I think narcissistically. Thus, these internal conflicts circling around my everyday life, I’m sure to appear in strange, external objects and people that I come across everyday, and somehow, get as much information for me as if I existed part of their life entirely. Gay stuff like that, I think to make myself laugh.

So, the one question I wrote and taped to my desk is: - how can a person distinguish between what is truly an external presence and what is, in fact, an internal, psychological conflict projected outside of oneself? Because, as I believe, this is a world not entirely driven by concrete reasons or facts, but rather by morbid, out of body visions that pinpoint to meaning, and maybe even salvation. More gay stuff like that, you know. It’s the same way when I first watched Final Destination at a young age, and saw the horror comedy ‘Cabin Fever’ because I used to loathe, still do in some way, about diseases causing the insides to fail and your body to dissolve into meat material.

What in the hell am I trying to say - I don’t know exactly, but I’ll keep trying to make sense of why it darn pains me, and thrills me, to always peck at my ego, and conjure up anything worth mentioning like I’m already a God-Damn professional. Writer; Movie Director; artist; son; a collector; dopamine addict; egotistical; - I know one day the importance of all of these will be as small as the roaches I constantly spot in the kitchen and bathroom; maybe when I’m forty or fifty years old, who the hell knows. There are still a lot until then.

I feel, though, I’m ready to start over - go back in time and change just a few decisions; opposing anything related to teachers, my parents, or my dislike for reading. Maybe then, now, I think I’ll be a lot braver, and less worried if I’m ever worth being in my own story, and others. A constant aura that shows I’m just as funny, dirty, and ripped with a personality worth being as attractive as anybody else.

I don’t know, though, I always remind myself, things can always change. However, right now, I should eat soon, drink some juice, and go home and jerk off for an hour. Complete the ‘Happy First Week of School,’ I guess.