Diary of A Madman

Mondays. They creep by slower than a senior citizen taking a Sunday afternoon drive through the countryside.

The computer is gone, for now. The new drives are being installed, so I am writing in my Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas-esque notebook. Paper is my refuge, where I retreat to gather up my thoughts.

Paper. Where would I be without you? Probably the same place as I am now. Just disgruntled, frustrated. We write on it without realizing its value. Look at a piece the next chance you get. What would you see? Just a piece of paper, you say? Look again. Look deeper, harder. With the right kind of eyes you can see these things written in invisible ink. Inside each page resides a Great American novel, the cure for cancer, the solution to an algebraic equation, the lyrics to the next Grammy winning album, or a love note to a person who cherishes another, yet a plethora more exists that go unlisted. From nothing come the answers. Without paper, all pens and pencils would be brought to a standstill. Writers would be frustrated at the fact they only have half of the tools they need. A tragedy, having all the words to say, but nowhere to voice them.

Words, enigmas, crossword puzzles. Excavated from the deserts of the World, brought back to the Modern World.

What will happen when words fail to do their task? Should we be honored that words cannot capture how great something is? Should we be insulted that no person can find a compliment or a kind word to say or write truthfully? Should we be terrified of something so beautiful that we lack the knowledge and the scope to describe it? As a writer, I always feel at a loss if I can’t describe something. I am truly starting to believe that a person’s name is the perfect way to describe someone. Ask yourself this: Who are you? No mix of heavy-handed words or cliché phrases could come close to how someone’s name truly encompasses who a person is, will be, and was.

I wish I could fill these pages with such thoughts that would inspire the uninspired, but I fear there is no lightning in the air today. Mondays are so gray, yet they have some with some freedom with them. They mark the beginning of a new week for me. School at times can be a bit mundane, a little dull. Kids often feel that school can be a bit imprisoning. Although school can be institutionalizing, it could be worse. We could be working in a sweatshop overrun with bacteria and disease-ridden rodents the size of your forearm roaming the floors, risking our lives every day for a mere penny for the sweat of your brow. Our skin could be stretched taut across our ribs and the wrinkles of time etched across our faces. Trust me, all our problems could be magnified to about a hundred percent. I’m fine with school, especially since only twenty-eight days are left.

So the day speeds up and slows down like a teenager’s first time on the highway. Driving me crazy. But you’ll find it difficult to drive someplace where you already are. All I ask is for a little continuity. Go whatever speed you wish, just please keep it consistent.

The sun sets, the day dies, and the night holds fast. Here I am in my room protected from the World. It seems movies have become my modern day lullabies, just to set me to sleep. At times, my mind is racing with thoughts, so much that sleep often flees me. With a movie on, my body and mind shut down to some primitive level. I let myself be hyponitized by the grizzled and the beautiful faces, the tragedy, the inspiration. Like watching a fire just dance all night.

It seems that my ability to write has flourished since I first set foot into the halls of Taylorville High. Had I known that I could write back then I would have taken Journalism. Alas, it is too late for that, now. 4 years have come and gone. The day that some of us have been waiting for all this year is fast approaching. My class will be going off in different directions, dispersing themselves throughout this vast country. I wish to all my fellow classmates that good fortune would follow at your heels. That is all I wish you. Go out and earn a living doing what you love, for your own sake. I look through the yearbook at my class and what do I see: damn good people. Ones that you could look back on from your later years and memories haven’t faded. I wish I had all the time in the world to get to know a fair cross-section of Taylorville, yet I doubt I have the capacity to do so even if the sun stood still. No doubt I will miss the friendships I have made, I have cherished their company and their fellowship more than they can fathom. This isn’t the end; it’s merely the beginning. This short period of time is nothing in the grand scope of life, but somehow the sentiment is overwhelming. As a class, over the years we have grown and matured together and it is a fitting end to these all these years that we graduate together. Hold onto the memories of high school and cherish them, because there’s nothing else you can do with them. Soon we might find ourselves alone in a strange environment, alien to us. Some might scream good riddance to these walls, some might utter good bye, but it is certain that these four years here are only a snapshot of our early years. Whatever happened here happened here in this small stretch of time…and personally I’m glad that it did.

There are times when a writer must believe in what he writes and pronounce that belief out loud. For if the writer doesn’t believe in what he writes why should the reader then believe? Other times, it is necessary for a writer to be modest for the fear of forcing their work down people’s throats might be frowned upon. I have always thought that a person’s creativity presents tangible evidence of our souls. I heard a poem of someone’s and a layer of separation peeled back. I try not to force my work on people, because I have the underlying thought that it isn’t quite good. If I feel someone is trustworthy, I’ll let him or her read a poem or two. I’m proud of my work; it’s just that I’m picky at times. My writing ability is… I don’t know to describe it, really. I write. That’s about it.

Ah. Tuesday. Feels a bit weird. Can’t put my tongue on it. Off base. It seems fast paced yet strangely sentimental. Like all the momentum in the world was behind this day. As if this Tuesday was just a locomotive freight train ripping through the small of my World, not even a slight curve in the rail could slow it down. Full steam ahead.

Tuesdays and Thursdays are writing days for me. The study hall that I have is much more quiet than the other days, which makes it easier to concentrate on the matter at hand. It doesn't necessarily mean that it makes it easier to write.

Here's a little speech I wrote for a character in a story I'm writing at the moment. For frame of reference, the character is happens to be drunk.

Goddamn, don't you see, it's just like that Murphy guy says. Anything that can go wrong will go wrong...and if it hasn't yet, trust me, just wait for it, it will. It sneak up on you, bend you over, and rape you with a monstrosity of tragedy for thinking you were any different from the rest of the world, that you were special in some unique way that separates from the vast hordes of the norm. What makes you think you shine so brillantly amongst a sea of stars? Do your feet not touch the ground? On some day were you not born and on some day will you not die? Do you not bleed when you are cut? Do you not sweat when you toil? Do not judge those who surround you so quickly and deem yourself their superior. By doing so, you have made them better than you can ever be, just by judging wrongly.

So yeah.

There is something awfully sobering about rain, for me at least. In the countryside, you can smell a storm coming. Past memories ripple throughout my mind as raindrops ping against my window.

Wednesdays. I watched the dawn crash onto the horizon as I drove home from Taylorville. My eyelids, heavy as sandbags, struggled to stay open. "I'm awake, that's for sure, but where am I headed?" Not even daring to take my eyes off the road, I made a blind grab for my Mountain Dew, satisfyingly half full and slightly chilled. The road blurred past as I made my way home. I'm not thinking about anything in particular. My brain is functioning on a mere basic survival level. Operating in fragment sentences and one word commands. Drive. Home. Right. Left. Right. Right. Left. Left. Follow the curve. 2nd house on the right. Home. Go inside. Nap. 30 minutes. When I come to, I forget how crappy I think life is at times, and I remember that I have a promise to keep to my grandfather and to myself. My Mountain Dew stands waiting on my nightstand, ready to be devoured in one draught.

Wednesdays are comfortable to me...most of the time. Right smack dab in the middle of the school week. They feel like your bed after a long day, something you can just sink into. For me, they go by slowly, but I am content with the steady pace they run. They feel familiar, like you just slipped into a well worn pair of shoes.

Thursday. Nothing happens on Thursday.

Friday. I sit here compiling my thoughts together over the past week and prepare to write them in my blog.

Saturday. I actually sit down and write in my blog, failing to do so last night. I go outside barefoot with a glass of tea (I know it's a strange concept to grab, but there are times when I drink something besides Mountain Dew) with my newly developed pictures in the other hand. Relieved that I finally have this thing posted.