Coma[ternal]

4 days and no posts?? What is going on?

I've been busy.

So I had a very interesting weekend, which some writing might come out of. Been thinking a lot of other story ideas to throw around, I would post some stuff here but its longer than my usual, and so I don't really want to share just parts for a larger story until I have more of it done SO I'm gonna pull out one of my older ones, and share that with you. It's kinda short because I wrote it by hand first and cut out parts to skip to the actual plot so I could finish it in some way or another at least. The title is a mesh of "coma" and "maternal" as in mother.

Coma[ternal]

He walked with a limp and a bit of a hunch, but quicker than a trained indian. Inherently, he was a nice man, but time had worn on his intentions and had destroyed his motivation. He almost questioned his entire existence.

He wasn't religious, but maybe he should be. Maybe it would give him incentive to continue with his life in a jolly manner, but now all he desired to bring among the people around him was pain and guilt. He lived on the newcomer's stares of empathy and thrived in scaring it out of them with his wretched personality.

His ninja waddle, if it could be called so, took him a long time to perfect, but he had learned to enjoy it, as it added to the anticipation of the scare. He loved their faces not only from the intense growling noise he would make but also from his terrifying appearance.

He never physically harmed anyone, and his personality wasn't a result of choice entirely, it was a result of the conditioning of the meann people before him had wrought upon him (does that mean he is allowed to do unto others what has been done to him however?)

He used a cane, mostly to ward off small children and unwanted visitors of his precious personal bubble. He didn't need it to walk really.

His mother stayed in the hospital, in a comatose state. Arguably, she was the only person he felt a shred of compassion for, but she hasn't had the chance to ruin his perception of her yet. He stayed also because he needed physical medical care, whether that was from old age or a prolonged stay in the hospital was uncertain. He avidly denied any medication.

The hospital couldn't have had any positive effect on his mood. It was a bleak white with slightly blue horizontal bars lining from the top to the bottom. While it wasn't a prison in any way, he had decided by choice never to leave. His sour mood never allowed it.

He walked into her room like he always did. Stop at the doorway for a few seconds, giving a small sigh when her eyes remained closed. He pinched the bridge of his now allowed his eyes to water a little and placed his cane against the wall by the door. He walked towards her slowly, trying to make enough noise with his steps in hope that she may wake up. It had never worked before.

He sat slowly in the seat that had been moved next to her. It belonged in the corner but since he had moved the chair by her bead and steadfastly protested it never be moved, it has not budged.

His hands slowly moved towards hers and gently wrapped themselves around her frail fingers as he stared at her restful face. She looked peaceful but extremely weathered. Her chest barely moved up and down from her weak breathing.

As his head stared at the ground, he felt her hand twitch and a surge of joy ran through his heart. His love, his compassion! He brought his eyes up to hers and saw her eyes open for the first time in years.

She let out a small moan and looked over into his eyes.

Her eyebrows furrowed and her hand pulled away suddenly.

"Who are you!?" she asked almost maniacally as she curled away from him, pushing herself to the far side of the bed. She pulled away as much as her frail frame allowed and returned his tearful eyes with a glared pair.

"Mom, its me!" he choked. Tears dropped as he stood and grabbed for her hand, but she swatted it away.

"No beast could ever be my son!" she returned with vigilance. His eyebrows raised and his chin crumpled as well as his emotions.

"Mom please, its me..." he whimpered, his lower lip trembling.

"Get out," she hissed. He receded slightly, reluctantly.

"Get out!!" she repeated, louder this time. She sat up and stared at him in anger, pointing towards the door.

He ran from the room a with a sick feeling in his gut and his eyes to his face. He ran down the hallway crying without pause.

His sobs could be heard throughout the entire hospital.

The Pocket Mouth

He walked the sidewalks alone. Taking in the same old views and watching as other people laughed and talked, unaware of his loneliness. In an instant, he was angry and jealous at how happy they could be when he was not, but he sighed, and came to the realization that, really, they weren't responsible for his happiness.

The higher-ups, the ones in charge. They seemed to have a little more responsibility about these things, and where were they? But, they weren't responsible for his happiness either, and how could they? How could anybody? How could anybody have the time for him and him alone to ensure he was on his way to being simply happy?

People didn't like him initially, it was just something he gathered over time and had grown accostumed to. He couldn't pinpoint exactly why, but it seemed that people were a little more judgemental when it came to him. But it didn't bother him, not in the small scheme of things. One passes, and another. But time after time hurts, and thus he is left to self-reflection and loneliness with no one to blame but himself.

And one could say, really, that it is entirely his fault. But not so entirely as to isolate and blame him fully. How can you approach someone who has made up their mind about you before you had said a word?

Surprise was his friend. Chance, circumstance, luck. If he could catch someone off-guard before they had a chance to think, he would have more of a chance. But this isn't something he planned, this is something he had to wait for, because he had to be surprised too. Forced situations worked towards his favor, as he wasn't an awkward kid, only assumed to be, and therefore avoided. But when one could not avoid, they might learn.

Not to say that everyone that was forced to start conversation, or forced into a position in which he would start conversation, would actually enjoy the company of the kid, but at least he would be given a chance to have them make up their mind before they could ignore him.

In this fashion, he has secured himself many friends. Those who do not know, and he does not know, as he does not calculate when or who to strike, again, merely relies on chance, have become pedastals of conversation, trust and companionship.

Perhaps all of these thoughts brooding in his mind for entire days is what wards off these people. They wouldn't know it themselves, why they had feelings against starting a conversation with a random guy, but subconciously they would realize that the breadth of his thoughts was too much to bear for normal conversation and perhaps he would become clingy or desperate for a friendship when in reality these thoughts simply disappear when a person appears that seems unusually friendly in the large bestiary of shut mouths.

Or perhaps, it is not what they see in his eyes, but what they don't see in his eyes, and the rest of his body. Perhaps these people are only attracted to sexy undertones by the handsome man's physique that they did not see in him (whether he had it or not - and whether the conversation was entirely platonic or not). Men notwithstanding of course, except for the liberally erotic.

Or maybe the people are simply too lazy to add another person to their lives. How easy it is to attach yourself to another being of which you have a non-tangible but somewhat mutually relatable connection to - a roommate, a family member, a peer from your old school who you may not even talk to, someone who has the same birthday, a person you shared a cupcake with etc - which could happen to him on account of chance, something similar to sharing a moment of sameness with another that unites them. Usually in his case, it ends with awkward looks the other way and embarrasment of at least one party involved.

In any case, he fashioned and doomed himself, as concluded with multiple encounters of silence from, what he thought to be, confident "hellos" and "how are yous", as a man not to be socialized with. How can one argue the irrefutable point proven time and time again, regardless of ethnicity, age or intelligence? He will have to await the next time the divine dice rolls triple sevens again to offer him a slim chance at a new friend.

Something I wrote in March

Next time you find yourself shopping at the local Cirilla's (an adult novelties and entertainment store), try asking for the return policy.

I was going to put more than that in this post, but honestly, I really only started this to put that thought down. I didn't write the thought down in March, I just changed it because that's what I'm making this post about. This is pretty much what I imagine when I write.

March 3rd, 2010.

It repeated. The desert he was in was flat. It just kept repeating. His life. An endless repetition. He used the same words over and over. He thought the same words over and over. He thought that his life was repeating, but thats all he ever thought, and therefore fulfilled his own self prophecy. He would think, my life is just the same thing over and over. Then he would think it again. And again, and again, and again. His life was a repetition in the practice of repetion. Was it choice? It seemed like he could not get out of the loop.

He drank from his glass and set it back down. He didn't pay any attention to it. He worked for hours. Typing. Typing. Words coming from his fingertips and transforming into pixels on the page. Backspace, he made a mistake. He clicked in the wrong place, starting typing between a word...didn't realize it for a little but then he noticed. He was typing in the middle of nowhere, right in the middle of the h. He took another drink.

The fact that his fingers never grew tired didn't bother him. Why would it bother anybody. He would probably be bothered to know that all text that was not on his screen disappeared forever, but the size of the text file always fooled him. It grew gradually, the more he typed, whether or not the words were visible or not, he took for granted that the computer could memorize words beyond the monitor, which made enough sense in the real world, if he was in it. He took another drink. Tack tack tack tack...ti-tack. The sound of the keyboard with his, at best, chaotic typing.

The font slowly turned into scrawl, but ever so slowly he did not see it occur. It became very similar to his handwriting which was illegible to even him on occasion. The print began to slur its words together as if trying to create a neon sign with the letters, in case he ever wanted to make a full size model to place in front of his home in the desert.

Home? He didn't have a home in the desert. It was the desert. What an absurd thought.

He took another drink.

His fingers began to trace in the sand, mimicking his handwriting. He wrote now in large letters, as the sand would allow no smaller without collapsing upon itself. His finger moved along the sand. It was hot, but he never stopped. His fingers formed the letters he was thinking of that may or may not have formed into entire words that may or may not have began to create a story that someone may or may not be interested in reading. His eyes furrowed, thinking these exact thoughts as he continued moving along the sand. He shuffled like a crab underneath his story, stopping only to take a drink of his water. The glass was always right above his work.

He didn't stop. Oh no, he couldn't stop. Men came and went, women came and went, animals and plants and storms and snows and tornadoes and earthquakes and emotions and suns and moons and stars and tears and blood and old age and childhood and fingernails and colors and stones and cores and papers and pens and offices and depression and thoughts and wrinkles and pina coladas and buckets of water and roads and airplanes and presidents and troubles and robots and cars and pencils and pillows and calculators and languages and magic and pots and pans and drills and gold and space and hands and feet and faces and marks and crushes and let-downs and fathers and mothers and cups and peanut butter and socks and towers and lies and infidelity and keys and hearts and discs and sports and nature and time and...............

He took a drink of his water.

No, never stopped. He couldn't stop. What a life he had to live. It might not even be his choice, the inability to stop writing came over him so strongly like an unquenchable thirst, but that he didn't have to worry about. He looked back on his line that traveled across multiple worlds and shrugged. He looked up and saw hands grabbing for him. They were always there. Waiting. He stood. He took a drink of his water.

March 11th, 2010

The hands certainly took their time. He stood with a slightly confused look upon his face peering up at the wrinkle-layered skin that slowly grew larger and larger in his vision. Carelessness lead him here. The gods must be reading his story from across the world and across universes. Obviously his story had interested someone. He only took a drink from his water, and stared upwards.

Boy, they certainly took their time.

He could feel their grip upon him, He did not resist. He was grabbed underneath, his arms free. The hands were so dirty and dry. Liquid could keep a pretty good hold on these hands. He dipped his finger into his glass of water and began to trace letters on the hands. He left wet marks upon them that continued his story, and they did not resist. His eyes looked nowhere else. He could not see what was above him or below him.

The hand was at least gentle with him, carrying him. He had no notice of it moments after it had picked him up, for his passion for his story was too great and it consumed his being. He took a drink, but hastily tore the glass away from his face realizing it was all he had for makeshift ink around.