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Thursday, October 7, 2010

I didn't even read this after I wrote it.

I saw something fall to earth the other night. It cast a might orange and purple burst of light across the sky, longer than I had ever previously seen. The radio was tuned to my iPod playing something downtempo and brilliant, though for the life of me I cannot remember what. I drove down the empty old highway with no purpose or direction, mostly to clear my head, a singular coil of cigarette smoke being sucked out of the window of my white, bird-shit stained, beat-up Lincoln Towncar in between my frequent inhalation of said carcinogens. The road is empty, yet dimply lit by rusted and dented light-posts bent over as if in shame for their very appearance pour out a cold and unwelcoming light yellow onto the cracked sidewalks and asphalt. Yet still I persist along this lonesome strip of street for the sake of time occupation. I don't know how to rationalize it and I don't want to, this feeling is not only capable of voice, but it does not deserve it. I'm forced to a stop by the menacing red glare of an angry stoplight, it screams to me in a language only my eyes are capable of understanding. My cigarette has reached the lining before the fiberglass filter, so I flick it out the window and immediately produce another from the pack resting in the passenger's cup-holder which I follow with a purple miniature bic lighter. The cigarette is lit, the light burns green, I let go of the brake and I'm off again, over a dark hill covered in the strewn pieces of broken glass and plastic from previous car crashes, drunken monsters in the middle of the night deciding to get behind the wheel of heavy machinery in a stupid attempt to make it to their own home safely, yet they don't even consider the idea that they and others may not make it home at all. I've made it over the hill and I'm confronted with my final options. I have about 10 seconds to make up my mind about if I want to continue on this aimless meandering into the night in my perfect little bubble, if I want to actually go somewhere and do something for the sake of such, or heading to my home to take this night into the dream realm of things and forget it completely.

How I wish I chose something with life, rather than a boring list of meaningless details. Wake up, follow your impulses, but question your surroundings. You are inventing yourself each are every day and you will probably never know exactly which day will be your last.

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