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I have been spun dry lately and I don't know why. The tiredness I feel is like that of Leonid Tolstoy as he bawled and crawled his way through my biography, 'A Confession'. I know, I know. It's not really my biography. But wow! I mean. I know that I didn't kill people in a war, get married, write great works or travel abroad. I didn't do many of the things that he did. So it's not really my biography, but his thoughts, his feelings...how they prick me at times.

"It is only possible to go on living while you are intoxicated with life; once sober it is impossible not to see that it is all a mere trick, and a stupid trick! That is exactly what it is: there is nothing either witty or amusing, it is only cruel and stupid."

Oh, but how he has watermarked my conscience with these writings, I cannot begin to tell you!

I don't know. It's not quite like Styron's 'Darkness Visible', or anything. It's not Holden standing at the edge of the field of rye, catching all the children as they casually and carelessly leap from the end of the world. That is plain and simple! But Tolstoy suffered for his lack of contribution to the world...HIS LACK OF CONTRIBUTION! Can you imagine someone like Tolstoy not feeling like a contributor? I am vexed! What am I, a coffee stain on a plain of pain? A contrived idiot in a macramé plant-holder universe, dangling on a precipice of nothingness!

Speaking of 'The Idiot', that was a really good book, too. It was another one about me. My God! You would think that everything was essentially about me. I mean, essentially. Incidentally, if you have read 'Zooey', you have read my biography. There you have it. Everything is about me. I am not self-centered. My illness is. So don't give me any grief. I will speak to it and reprimand it. My illness, that is. Oy vey! I can't even stand to listen to myself, right now. It's just that Tolstoy is killing me. But, killing me!

All this is nothing in comparison to what Camus is doing to me. He is annihilating something inside of me. He was such an uncaring bastard. No wonder there was so much controversy when The Cure turned 'The Stranger' into a song. There is no joy in walking up to an Arab, or anyone else for that matter, and shooting them for no reason. What the hell was that about, anyway? The most existentialist book ever written, and we sing about it! And above all else, we like the song! "Starin' at the sea, Starin' at the sun...reflected in the eyes of the dead man on the beach, dead man on the beach." I tell you now, my brothers, "Whatever I choose, it amounts to the same...Absolutely nothin'. I'm alive...I'm dead...I am the stranger."

If only we could embrace. If only we could meld. There is only the hope of that. There is only the hot shower to relieve the coldness in my veins, only the driving water to mask the falling tears. Again he goes nuts with the rant of rants! Did you know that Sylvia Plath suffered? If only the idiot that keeps her journals alive could have kept her alive. Why is it that Anne Sexton is not read more often, either? Does her death vindicate us from her life? Her chain-smoking, hyper-tense monologue is something that burns going down, but soothes all the same. At least she didn't die the death given to Carson McCullers. Her clock ticked and her clock tocked, but it did not unwind by the hands of its maker. If I were a clock keeper I would certainly know how to stop this one!

With or without achievement, there is still the endless disarray. What a puddle. I don't even know what I am talking about anymore. I think I'm going to dump some more suck-ass poetry onto a blank, white page. I don't know how to write it anymore, though. The tree of words that used to root in my consciousness, and spring out of my un-hindered limbs has died of dry rot. "I could not foresee this thing happening to me." The sleep sucks, the time spent in the chair sucks...which reminds me, I have to go there today.

The good Doctor, whom I must visit today, encourages me to delve into matters pertaining the heart. What the good Doctor does not know is that I do not have one. I looked. I ripped my chest open, expecting the old pump-pump to go billowing out in a cloud of red chiffon, or maybe silk, and rise above the gloom of life. I thought it would sail as high as old Jonathan Livingston. But no.. Plop, and bang...It hit the floor. What was left of it...what actually hit the floor was a dried husk that was vaguely reminiscent of the valved valentinic chamber. A whoosh and it was gone. No soaring for yours truly.

Incidentally, I will not go softly. I will fight the good fight. I will not put my head on the pillow in defeat! I am orange, after all. In what time in the history of mankind have you ever seen the color orange admit defeat? Never, I say, never.





------
At the end of every short story the reader should feel like a cloud has lifted from the face of the moon.


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by Zachary Martin Glass





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