late night fiction

I wish to live in boring times no need to turn on the news; no crumbling society since last I checked

I might sip something warm under my backyard trees listen to the leaves feel the cool breeze

I would think about beauty instead of misinformation campaigns; how to convince my parents they shouldn't believe everything they see

I might reclaim some time to do nothing at all

Are we all the paper tumbling down the road windy night changing direction suddenly going this way now. Its composition dictates how it tumbles if it floats high as the plastic bag if it needs force like the errant cardboard but it is the wind that moves it. So my legs move the same according to my composition at the time swinging high to climb windy stairs floating low on exhaustion or injury Maybe this is why it feels good not to try be like the wind let the breeze take you Maybe trying is only an illusion Even when you succeed the wind was already going to take you there based on your composition at the time. Outside of sequential time all that will happen because of who you are at the time has already happened because of who you are your “future” is only reality catching up to it.

Sometimes usually when I have too much coffee I feel like I'm stumbling faster than I can catch myself the ground has tilted forward I have to p u s h a g a i n s t it no longer step when I want the hill pulls me down until I remember I can change the hill

Today a guy was standing at the light by the nearby underpass — the one next to the railroad tracks that divides this neighborhood and the next. There's just a sliver of concrete sidewalk to stand on, running along the foot of the overpass's concrete walls. But he stood there, as I've seen plenty do before.

It was nice outside, but I rolled up my windows before I approached. I usually do.

Unlike most who I've seen stand at that long traffic light, this guy had a guitar with him. He picked it up and belted out a twangy song about rambling or some such. He strummed loudly. I could hear it through my windows; I wasn't playing any music on the radio yet.

I remembered I had some cash in my wallet. I didn't have any plans for it. So when he took a break from his first song, I rolled down my window and rolled the car forward.

“Here you go, man.” I handed him a fiver.

“Really appreciate it,” he looked me straight in the eyes.

I could tell he was genuine. I hope it helped.

#smallstories #thepeople

“How’s it going?” I ask, squinting in the setting sunlight behind him.

“Still getting around alright, isn’t he?”

I’ve never seen or spoken to this friendly neighbor. He must be referring to the aging dog I’m walking, my dear old boy. “Yeah, he does alright!”

He continues walking briskly past us, smiling at my quadruped as he passes. We amble into the middle of the street, at the boy’s direction. I like to let him walk me; not the other way around.

#smallStories #thePeople

You can't say you love me for all the things I do for you And stop loving me when I do things for myself

#love #mini

the presence of death— always present: motivation suddenly words flood my brain this could be your last. make it beautiful, pick something and don't amble languidly in wait or driven by my visceral heart infinity in the finite— that's what we are forget your mortality and you won't welcome new scars.

#poetry

There is a sage that appeared one day, emerging from some unknown place. When questioned on his origins, he never found it important enough to answer; the same when asked where he'd traveled and what he'd seen.

All that was in his mind was calm contentment. The people around him saw nothing but wide, glowing eyes as he stared up towards the sky, or stopped in the middle of a path to look at the leaves on a tree. They wondered what was going through his head — the ones curious enough did, anyway. Others were mildly irritated to see a man walking so slowly in front of them, or stopping in the middle of a moving crowd to watch a bird.

See, though he could blend with any crowd of creatures in the world (including humans), the crowd of humans never blended back. In the human city all are expected to be dutifully on their way to somewhere important. None amble or loiter — if you do you are marginalized. The streets exist only to serve the busy or affluent. The cool, air-conditioned buildings are only there for your use if you have official business to conduct. Parks are to be enjoyed by all, but run on the time of humans, and the sage didn't wear a watch.

He wandered the public squares, but they contained more automobiles than humans — they never seemed to loiter there as much as those monoliths of metal and glass.

He never told anyone, but he'd noticed everything speed up as he approached the center of this human city. Even when their mechanical carriages were slow, the humans could be seen inside, their emotions moving fast toward anger, their impatience and intolerance of slowness overflowing.

It was less strange to him, observing this, than it was profound. At the sight of it he saw a time in his past where he was no different. He had lived at that speed, relishing it, feeling comforted in his solitary quest to hurl himself into the future in a seat of a car, right next to his fellow city dwellers. He had lived with and among them, without speaking to most of them.

#stories #thecity #thesage

Pages, flat, wide mossy teeth just the inside a gut storing leftover unnecessaries quickies of joy—now lard simple devices: a pen creation: create or conserve your energy? make some great shit that I can read in 5 years never know or care for its greatness now just give me a reason to live THEN, when I need it. creativity [excitement] constrained to a glowing screen world: send your leaves falling your cold into my bones your waves into my ears show me something again I can love.

#poetry

2 more weeks

an open field of free choice, a goal in mind. a dog, a cat, and some things.

stay in the city? stay in the woods? whichever is more pretty.

Dr. Society misdiagnoses, prescribes me the wrong medicine.

so in two weeks I'm off it. medicating with dreams, sights, and a leap.

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