the 19th

Lying in the tunnel with some blue chalk in my pocket. I wanna write something but I can't figure out what.

I wanna write something really loud.

I'm angry but excited and I need to get out. Really I just want to fly, so I ride.
I wanna wrench me open and pull out the things scratching and scrambling to stay in my brain.
It's making me go insane because it feels so real.

There's a fight going on in the logic side of my mind.

It's not hurting me, but noises are shaking, scrambling my head.
Shoving and punching and pushing and twisting. The yells and the punches. The screams from the crowd. There's blood spitting through the air. Red coughing from their mouthes. My brain is getting battered. Like thirty something seventeen year old boys are all beating each other till we're soft. Thirty something copies of me having a boxing match in the top of my head. We're all mad and we're fighting for something. But the adrenaline's buzzing in the humid air between our flying fists like we're all gonna wake up in the morning and laugh about it.
Like we're all great heroes for fighting ourselves.
I always wanted to be a hero.

Still. We continue flipping each other over the line. Taking things too far and not really knowing why. Glass is breaking and somewhere a ceiling fan is throbbing. The yelling never stops. Someone must have just used the chair.

But still, we're all roped in.

Outside my head, I lie down in the bike tunnel. I'm wondering when the fighters are gonna break their way through my skull. Maybe they'd beat me up from the outside too.

Memory of her: I chase after her on my bike. It seems like we were the only people in Utah again as we sweat in the star stenciled night. She taught me really how to ride. I'm going fast, but somehow she was always going faster. I liked to stay behind and watch her calves, which might be weird. But, she yells something to me and I yell that I can't hear her. She yells again. "Scream!"
I'm flying.
We plunge into the long bike tunnel and we did scream. Not just yelling, we scream like the entire world's in the tunnel, here to clap for us and cheer for us and tell us we'll last forever. Yellow lights flashing passed us. Flickering through the spokes of our bicycles. I know she could feel it too. We both laugh and scream for the crowd. Her loud laugh echoed in the tunnel forever and I feel like I can still hear it now. Bouncing all over the yellow light. That's the night I said I'd spend the rest of my life trying to keep up with her.


They're tearing their way out now. Yeah if they'll beat me up from the outside too, I won't stop them.
Because maybe that'll make me stop thinking again. and I don't think I should be thinking about her this much.

The upstairs in my head is either a bar fight or a boxing match.

No, maybe it's a baseball game.

Blocks

I don't like to listen to music with head phones. I feel like I could be blocking things that might be trying to get in.

I always wanted to climb over these mountains and find the world waiting for me on the other side. I still wanna get across the lake and see my life from the other side. But my body's blocking me from going fast and everything else is blocking me from going anywhere.

It's like I can see it through this plastic floor, but I can't feel it. I can't touch it.

My parents are the biggest blocks.
I try to do things abnormally. I don't know, some sort of lame attempt at being a rebel I guess.
I tried not cutting my toenails for a few weeks.
I woke up early, sat outside and read my book.
I tried walking outside barefoot in the snow.

I know that if she were here she would've told me to run out in my boxers in the snow. And I would have wanted to do it too. Right now, I think I would do it.
How can somebody block so much but let in something completely new at the same time?


But nothing about her ways are logical. I can't read anything on her.
I can't predict a single step and that drives me crazy.
That's good. That's bad.
That's good. No, that's bad.
That's good. That's bad.
That's not good. That's bad.
That's bad. No, that's good.
That's good. No, that's bad.
That's good. That's bad.
That's bad. No, it's not.
That's good. That's bad.
That's good. No, that's not good.
I think it's fine. I think it's kinda nice.
You shouldn't. Shut up.

Predictable is safe.
I bet I could find a nice somebody someday and we could go out to dinner and see a movie every friday night. She'd kiss me at all the right times. We could tuck our kids in together every night and we could sit down and talk out our problems. I'd work from 9 to 5. She'd do the dishes and have dinner ready. And she'd kiss me on the cheek when I'd walk through the door.
Whatever.


It's like it's all building to block me from life.
and I'm just trying to decide what was meant to be done about it.

Because maybe God's hoping I won't break through it.
     But maybe he's waiting for me to try.

Note, "me at the theater"

Self-absorbing son of a.

I was always scared nobody would ever hold my hand.
I burned my hand at the theater once and had a white bandage wrapped around it for weeks.

The girl with the beautiful eyes was scarred too.
So I could hold her scarred hand in my left and together we could be-- whole?
She said it was extremely romantic. I always hated how she'd narrate things like that. It'd ruin the movie.

She was always scared nobody would ever hold her hand. But I learned later it was because I was always holding it.

That girl gave me lots of things I never did want. And ohhhh, she was so beautiful.
Actually, I see her sometimes.
She still is so beautiful.

But now she looks like everything I haven't got. She's done it all on her own.
Now she's that horrible feeling that someone has moved on and discovered something bigger with out you.
Mature son of a.

Together, you could've made me-- whole?

They got Paris and left Alpine for me

This is what happens when all your friends are in creative writing...

I went walking around when it was snowing on Sunday. I know everyday should be Sunday, but He only left us one day to rest.
I started thinking. I haven't been thinking since probably last winter. I don't try to think too much because I can feel that it's not healthy for me. It can feel it pulling me down and down and down. But by thin, white strings pinned all over my skin.
I'm not depressed.
(and that's not me in denial or something.)

I don't do much "self-evaluation". I've got some make-shift board of directors doing that for me.
But, that Sunday, I did. And I realized with every frozen step, that I've got a hundred pound weights grabbing me, panicky, by my wrists and telling me to Sit Down, to Calm Down. Just Calm Down, Benji. You're Fine, Benji.
People are cutting me and I didn't even know. And I didn't mind.

So, tonight I sold my sleep to blogger. I traded my dreams for Lions. Because I'll never go to Paris, but I certainly can try and fake my way into it.

Someday they'll make an early morning Creative Writing, by popular demand.