Nobody desires to live inside quotations, but we always do. Not to say that living inside someone else’s endeavors is a terrible thing - but, you know, there is something to say about those odd, brainy types that actually understand the concept of being original. You know; they will light their cigarettes a certain way, or talk about death as if they’re currently breathing in chaos, but have brewed their own brand of antidotes for people that ask for it - I lose sleep over these people. My name is Jimmy, and this world is against you and I - most likely.
There was a certain time where I could of chose to start getting a hold of myself, but I skipped over these days. I’ve been a mess, you know. Something about experiencing too many things at once and not knowing how to react to them always makes me feel like a bookshelf - not necessarily interesting on my own merit, but now possessing enough information to hold decent conversations with people whose bookshelves held similar topics. I promise my tone is subtle and my words are in the moment, but I just lose track of things - like the idea of beginning something, or skipping over the things you should skip over; you can’t relate to everything. A few weeks ago, my mother asked me how I was feeling about what happened last spring in our family. I remember pushing her a note that read, “Something is happening, something is dying inside of me.” while she was making me dinner, my favorite dish actually. She was not taking the Family Tragedy well either, and my statement of course didn’t suggest that I was in a mood of discussing the cons. My mother is too quiet. You would get so worried about her, but my empathy is lacking and I feel like dying - it wasn’t my job to begin with anyway. She didn’t acknowledge my writing - I think it made her feel childishly painful. I didn’t stick around to feel the air. She owns her own coffee shop in the town’s square, but she’s usually in the bathroom crying or “working on something new” in the back. I applaud her channeling, though. Lately, she’s oddly a heavy smoker. I find the cartons in her glovebox when I borrow the car to see myself outside. I have always looked like her - the hair, the eyes, the brows, and the insides.
Anyways, it’s a Monday. And Mondays always meant a solid try in school, and a melancholy glance or two towards what I seemed to view as people, just like every other day of the week - I don’t mean to depress you or what not, I’m just trying to cope with things in my own way. It’s my youth, let me be.
I don’t shower in the mornings, yes, I’m one of those guys - don’t judge me. I’l usually spend a majority of my morning angst coasting around my room debating on whether people owed me an apology today or not. Lately, I haven’t really cared for it, and it the waste almost seems lifeless now. I keep the list in a notebook that also contains weekly goals and accomplishments - yes, pretty nifty, pretty boring I suppose. The list of owed apologizes goes back to when I was in the 6th grade when a girl named Maggie Metzler had the gall to project a simple snicker in my direction when I corrected her on her statement of falsity in front of our class. She is going to NYU next year for choir and drama, I believe. Long story short, she had the brilliant idea that the color blue expressed a more powerful feeling than the color red. This was a heavy endeavor back in the day, I was heated to say the least: still am a little discouraged with her mind. It’s always red.
I threw the notebook in my ragged brown bag, and skipped my way out my bedroom door and out my house. The day wasn’t blue; it just existed for no reason. I was feeling quite giddy today as well; no particular reason of course; there was never a rhyme or reason to these things. Usually, I’ll find a reason to decimate the will to achieve academics, but I have been reading books on the Wild West these past few months. Mark Twain had an idea - And the cowboys had confidence.
