February 14, 2014

Valentine's day--Honest feelings and thoughts of a character and his mental journey through the day.

There he wakes up, on a mattress on a cheaply carpeted floor. He is surrounded by ash and stains, suffocated by the clothing on his floor. His desk is piled with unopened envelopes: AT&T, Wells Fargo, paid postage...You can see a couple ashtrays packed to the brim with Kamels and Marlboro's, half a beer, a 1/3 of a Wendy's drink. It's a wonderland in which
a person with even the slightest sense of organization would faint by the daunting thought of ever having to clean it up. Maybe it's time to just give up and place a call to some professional organizing company.

But there he wakes up in his pajamas. Only he knows that those red plaid pj's are the ones his ex-girlfriend gave to him as a stocking present. And on this day, February 14, his mind swims in previous memories, instants that seem to match what the definition of love seems to be--those times he took for granted, cuddling in bed, laughing, poking, giggling
kissing. Having someone.

He checks his phone. Swipe. text message from a 404 area code. Not on the contacts list? odd. Its a red meme, 100x100 pixels of hearts and "happy valentine's day." That's enough to sink him back into his foam and blankets. Last year this day he was making vegan risotto, he was biking around town getting all the necessities for his vegan cheesecake. This year, he is surrounded by a dumpster diver's paradise. 

Out of cigs. Damn. that's alright. He's hipster enough to have a EZ-cig maker at home and a cheap bag of dried up tobacco. Walks by some homemade snuff. Takes a pinch to the nostrils to experience a momentary awakeness. Some leftover mac& cheese. Plate. fork. brew some coffee. And suddenly he's done it again. He has put his blinders on, and by raising the bamboo window blind up, he is able to sit there with a cup of coffee in hand. He is able to dream off into the layer of snow outside. Forget the stack of paperwork, don't feel guilty about not working today. It's 12:30 but for the length of that cigarette, he feels great soaring through scents of smoke, tastes of pungy coffee with too much sugar in it.
 

What to do on this horrid day? Funny to him, he never was the type to think he'd be bitter about this holiday. His mind traced back to a recent photo someone sent him of when he was young, like seven years old young. (And it also came from some unrecognizable phone #...what was up with that lately?) He looked so innocent, happy, unawakened. And now, just the night before, he had been googling "identity," "identity crisis," and read extensively on the topic. Erik Erikson, development steps...identity achievement...identity morgue-something...

As thoughts of "should get clothes washed, should clean up house" crept up, he sought another escape. And there it was in the form of three elements: More coffee, more smoke, and a novel. Why Tom Wolfe? A friend said his life sounded like something out of one of these novels. So like any decent 21st century human with a modern mindset would do--internet it. A Wikipedia page later, he found "I am Charlotte Simmons" to be the most interesting of the choices. A story of a young successful small town girl, and how she is corrupted by an Ivy League college,
leading her into a web of failures. Click. Amazon. Click. Accept. Confirm. Book was at his doorstep a day later.

But his mind kept raging and rushing. Is that what this holiday was designed to do? After a couple chapters, it was time to check Facebook. Click on some valentine's post of a short story. Three lines into it, it sounds sappy and happy and nothing like what he's looking for.

His mind...his mind...Jordan, just a random girl that didn't work out, and Kara the first love, Maria the Spanish girl who appeared in his dreams last night, Brie--the recent bisexual failure, and Liz the vegan.

Maybe music would help insulate the situation...Spotify recommends: You recently listened to Iron & Wine. Here's an album you may like...Bullshit. Girl talk? Not right now. Moby. Perfect.

And there he sits. Writing--typing to the sounds of synths and obscure vocals. Casually looking out his window to the left because the one to the right...its view is covered by a shed. His eyes jump around, procrastinating against cleaning up his surroundings. It would be a good time to call his parents, or his brother, or a good friend that lives out of state; maybe even respond to one of those long Facebook messages. But for better or worse, he types one word after another. He's been craving some writing. A good session of smoke-drink coffee all day and write.
It's too personal to put on Facebook. It may not be good enough for anyone else to read. But he writes as if a journal, but his secret desire is recognition. He craves someone will discover his writings and modern sculptures and will exult him, and his name will mean more because it would then appear in books, he would be then forced to create a 'FB' page for all his followers. He would feel the drive to produce more. No longer would he have to think of a mundane job that didn't evolve around creative processes. He would resolve his identity crisis for he would then have an identity. He could say hello, I am Sam. I am a recognized writer/artist. I have an identity. No longer would he be overwhelmed with fears of committing to something and never having it pay off. He would feel like his life had meaning. Maybe when no one was around, he would look up and give a little thank you to whatever big energetic-invisible mass may or may not be above him.

Funny how in the midst of his dreams coming true, he was numb to them. Once a young lad, he dreamed of being a seducer, and adventurer. And there he was-seducer for the night of new years he spent with the exact girl he wanted
to be with. And the adventurer--just yesterday he was traveling on icy roads, returning from a snowboarding trip. And he had excelled in just a couple days at learning the board. He twisted and turned down black diamonds, speeding past his competition. But he thought nothing of it. These seductive, adventurous times were stored recklessly in the memory box and would be pulled upon in some future social situation when he had the desire to prove his manhood.

What did he want? That was the problem. He had no f*****g idea. He was so fluid, he was like water seeping into whatever earth it found in it's path. Or he was like play-do, taking one form only to be turned into another shortly after. Why couldn't he just forget the drugs, be responsible, find love and have some children. Was an ash-infested house with half-finished art projects laying around any better?

Just that last night, he realized that he did know, more than anything in the world, what he craved for. If he could have anything, it would be the perfect girl. The one to understand him, who would naturally motivate him. One he
would be confident to confide in. One he could throw and tease sometimes, explore those taboo fantasies. And more than all, one he could cuddle with. This was a man who loved sensations. The feeling of ecstasy being absorbed by the stomach or mushrooms, or the tipsiness after a few jaegers...The feeling of music blasting his surroundings, an impacting message from an old friend. But nothing at the moment seemed better than cuddling. The feeling was so genuine to him. It's like there's no such thing as fake cuddling. And that's what he liked, he missed, he craved.

All the 14th did for him was remind him of exactly what he wanted, and it mocked him, flashing memories in his face of things he no longer possessed. What happened to Brie? It was all going to fall into place so nicely just a few weeks ago. Flakiness. young confused girl. What happened to him asking for the girls number after class? Cowardliness, or a mild case of depression that ensures he pushes great opportunities away replacing them with lame excuses.

And there he remains. If it were a movie, the scene would seem so ideal. The young confused writer, staring into his computer surrounded by empty bottles and unopened letters. Ash is in the carpet, ash is everywhere, but he doesn't care. All that is sure for him is the surrounding apathy, the numbness that seems to follow him wherever he goes. There he remains, in his pajamas that remind him of when he had exactly what he wanted but took it for granted. For better he at least knows now that he can't get them back. Kara is gone. Maria, gone. Liz: GONE. Brie...g.o.n.e.

But in the midst of the mild case of hyperbolized depression and drama, he is reminded that he grows. And for all good things, he pays with a little hardship. That the hardship makes the good rewarding when it does come. So he will smoke a cig, he will enjoy another cup of dark roast, and he will be content with himself. He will create, grow-find-develop or whatever it takes to define his identity. He will not use the identities of females he is attracted to. Not this time. He will stay strong and get his own s**t figured out. It will take much smoke, many tears, but with time, there is hope for this young man. There is hope. As the scratchy song in the background states, "Wake up. wake up. wake up. there's always hope."

End.

Author's Note

Note: This was written on notepad and hasn't had any changes made to it. Sort of an experimental-free-flow thought process.

I am new here, and didn't know how to categorize this writing.

Reviews

[Susie]

Wow. I am intrigued by the way you "set the scene" for your story. You do not describe the setting word for word, as much as you describe a certain "vibe". My imagination did the specifics - eg. dim light and groggy feeling of waking.
I feel like I can learn from your style. Your use of lower-case letters at the beginning of some sentences is deliberate and highly effective! It continues the thought. The mix of traditional writing and abstract poetry techniques makes for a raw, easy read. I'm already attached to the main character. You have conveyed that common feeling of loss on Valentines Day brilliantly. I am hooked! First story of yours that I have read and I am a sold fan. WELL DONE!! XO

[Mr. Color Blind]

Thanks for the feedback. I appreciate the specific comments. I feel I can learn from your style as well. Still looking forward to chapter four :)

[Susie]

Yes, I think we have a similar style, but can probably stretch it a bit by reading each others. You're doing an amazing job. Keep it up. Happy writing! xo

[Tarella]

HEY...welcome to writerscafe..:-))....

[Tarella]

HEY...welcome to writerscafe..:-))

[Mr. Color Blind]

Thanks for the warm welcome :)