Archive for 'Breaking the Fourth Wall'
Furious, she ripped herself away from my embrace. “Don’t fucking touch me,” she screamed with a venom that could have bored holes in the dust-covered kitchen tile beneath her would it have fallen from her mouth rather than been spit into my face with inhuman force. She stepped away hastily, nearly tripping herself on the half-built shelving unit that lay in pieces on the floor.
Here we stood, a newly-unionized couple enjoying the first weekend of togetherness. We stared at one another for a moment in silence, her venomous ire dripping down my face in the form of sweat and a stray tear. Her anger began to engulf her: her face turned as red as the pits of Hell, her eyes burned with the fire of a thousand suns, and she clenched her fists around the house’s best wrench, no longer screwing dainty screws into untreated wood, as though it were my very throat.
We stood at odds with one another across that pine-felled battlefield; wood chips and scattered debris punctuated the scene, signifying the great war that had taken place.
As the dust settled, I caught her eye. Not a moment passed before her mouth went from ajar to fully open, giving way to an erupting, streaming spew of ceaseless and deafening noise. The spring sun beamed into the room as though it was the hellish rays of God’s own punishing eyes burning into my back at the beckon call of her demonic roar. The pine boards across the battlefield glimmered in the soon-summer light.
Time stood still as she mouthed her discontent for my eyes to behold. Each word thrust from her mouth like an epee, carefully and precisely piercing my soul further and further with each strike. My soul fell as blood to the floor as it seeped from the unseen wounds, seemingly staining the wood as an everlasting reminder of my crimes against humanity.
So began the ballet: she twirled about the kitchen, deftly dancing around the modern marvel of unfinished furniture, as she sung the song that would end the world in the name of deriding my very being. And when she was finished, nothing remained but the completed shelving unit which stood in all its miraculous beauty anew.
All the devil asked for its creation was an unwilling man’s corpse.
GORM. Now $29.99.
Oh yea, I have a blog. I almost forgot. It seems like it’s been ages since I’ve written anything for myself, and yet, I find myself hesitate to dig into it now. If I’ve been quiet recently—minus one particularly-necessary interjection during a recent vacation—it’s only because life has been insanely busy as of late.
Between my much more hectic and demanding work life, my significant other and the uncertainty of what’s to come, and the regular rigmarole of trying to minimize the amount of excess that has long been and continues to be central to my livelihood, I’ve had little time to just sit and rue.
That shall be remedied now, though it is ironic that I’m seeking solace in Wordpress given that countless headaches have been induced with the usage of this tool over the past few months. For as “good” as things have been lately, I find myself nonetheless slave to the same old, defeatist mindset that has been my calling card for years. Let’s get on with the introspection, then, shall we?
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Music has an incredible power. This is common knowledge. Music can instill emotion just as easily as it can trigger floods of forgotten memories. And like everyone else, I too am deeply affected by music. But my love for music is strange in that I happen to feel obscenely strong emotions from music that very few actually listen to. Thus, I present an experiment: “Aural.”
Turn your speakers up. Turn the lights off. And read.
People usually balk when I say that the music that moves me most is “trance.” They usually say something along the lines of, “Oh, you like techno.” Trance is a very different beast than most electronic music, and yet it is incredibly hard to pinpoint why exactly. I have a terribly tough time trying to articulate the reasons why I like trance. That’s why I’ve decided that I’m going to try a small experiment here.
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The Spring of ‘86
Waves crashed on the coast’s dark banks. “White sand is overrated,” I’d heard more than a few times already in my days. Ultimately, there were more wrongs than rights—on the trip, and in life.
The wind playfully carassed my burnt face as I lay peacefully on the beach one day, her fingers draping down my cheek to my neck before being drawn away. How good her touch feels, I thought, even if it was phantom and fleeting. No one stepped in to take her place as she drew calm and left the beach. “Ca va mal,” I responded to her abscence in the spirit of the vacation. But she was already gone, and my words fell to the soft, hot sand below. (more…)
I have a problem.
This realization dawned on me first when I was lying on the beach in Cuba a month ago, but I felt it again this weekend past after a night out with some of my coworkers past and present. Sitting with a group of happily married and newly-engaged couples who all seem so well-to-do in life left me wondering about what I have to show for my (soon-to-be) 25 years.
I thought the same thoughts as I stared out into the sea, and a difficult problem to solve had arose—one that I fear has become an increasingly-recurring hinderance exaserbated by ye old quarter-life crisis.
For whatever reason, nothing that I do or accomplish ever feels real. (more…)
