This summer was an eye opener for me. I realized more than my share of the grin misshapen reality that’s consumed the likes of more than one human being. As far as soul-searching goes, well, nothing teaches you about yourself like a mischief binge gone awry. Nothing stares at you quite like the bathroom mirror when you’ve discovered who you really are. However, in such a case of shear disaster and hurricane-force self-loathing you will always find an unnatural placement of the mind. Most times, to the gutter, but being the big-booted optimist I am, I seized it as an opportunity. I saw the world for what it was, an awe worthy landscape polluted by modern society. And with reality as an excuse for catastrophe, that society was cannon-propelled toward the ground. This presented a crave to rebuild oneself out of the most logical and morally “correct” terms. To sculpt your soul with nothing but the stained hands that condemned you in the first place. Free of any thought other than those from the heart, I rewrote who I was from just that. I decided that any sort of rebellious instances were only y way of being different, my way of distancing myself, thus, not genuine at the slightest. I discovered that none of my opinions or desires need any sort of logical reason, that as long as it’s what I feel, I don’t need to explain myself to anybody. I also realized that 95% of the things people think, feel, say, hear, or see are some breed of manifest destiny for a power-hungry sensationalist. An as a result of this, the world around you is literally kept turning by excuses.
These sudden truths and socio-philosophical answers put me in a foul way. Whatever you want to call it, depression, anxiety or clinical insanity, it reared its ugly head with all the momentum these miserable type-casts need. Locked into its eyesight, an imbalance fell over my entire existence as my mind raced for any sort of release. Unfortunately none of the sort were readily in hands reach. My days were spent dreaming of a hellish utopia, and nights spent with a cautious disposition toward anything outside my window. I couldn’t help but wonder when I was to wake up, 2 moths younger, to a smiling face and a locked door. I constantly watched for some unknown TV host to emerge from the brush with a low-budget film crew and, at best, a diminutive sum of money for my troubles.
Every word not spoken by me was put through a filter deep inside my skull that refused to believe ANY spoken was not for personal benefit. Even my own speech was questioned by the thick behind my forehead. That was the point I concluded rock-bottom. Because no matter what you say, your always right. And anyone else’s opinion is always wrong. In that way, I was a complete stranger to myself.
Nothing you can do will be wrong. Nothing you can say will be false. According to your beliefs, your ideals, your own personal morals and truths, the very essence of your being, the only wrong you’ll ever make is being right all the time. And thus, being wrong is exactly the right thing to do.
For those of you who don’t believe me, take a quick peek at the person sitting next to you. Find one thing you absolutely HATE about them, and without reasoning with positive or negative or right or wrong, ask your self WHY they’re doing what they’re doing, acting the way they’re acting, wearing what they’re wearing, whatever. Chances are if your completely honest with yourself, the answer contains the word “think” or “believe” or “want” or maybe even clearance rack. The point is, at one time they had a choice and they didn’t choose the same as you. This evidence alone proves nothing, but does in fact suggest a form of free-thought. It provides a simple justification for that wrong-doers sense of self-righteousness.
No matter how much I love saying this in front of you people, Hitler was right, the same way George Orwell was right. Charles Manson was right the same way Bono was right. Your right, the same way I’m right.
However, society, (being this mess of egos and greed and deceit and trickery and an overall detest for anything not aboard the bandwagon) creates this solid wall of thick-headed imagination. “Protecting” us from that grim misshapen reality that has overwhelmed the likes of more than a few souls. The surreal imprisonment only overcome by the tyrants who built it.
As I said before, this kind of philosophy can only be achieved near the bottom of the societal hierarchy canyon. So if you completely lost, use that smile across your face as an excuse. Because nothing but wreckage comes from an imagination-reality collision.

As for that defining moment, well, it was just before dark on an otherwise average day. I had been competing against myself to find a thing of beauty in an anti-climatic wasteland such as downtown Mt. Pleasant. With the company of my skateboard and an ice-cold Boylan’s, I on an ancient looking bench below an orange-brick wall, knees tucked to chest style. The perch overlooked the square, southern Broadway, and an ICTC bus stop. Pedestrians walked by and did the best they could to not converse or acknowledge the lonely kid who was probably high.
After a certain amount of appreciation for the violet-orange sky over city-hall, I averted my attention to the lesser of the benches treasures. And right there in front of me, through the bus stop window, I witnessed a woman’s life flash before her eyes. As she was crossing Broadway, away from the setting sun, a white Envoy with the bass maxed and driver with nothing but his eyes on the wheel sped straight for this lady.
At 20 feet, the woman’s hair flinched with the wind. At 15 feet, the mass of steel and exhaust refused to slow down. At 10 feet, the woman’s slight limp seemed to push her into a closed-casket funeral service. At 3 mere steps, my mind caught up with my heart and I realized the gravity of the situation. At 2 steps I wanted to pull myself away. At the moment JUST before impact, JUST before this little old lady’s brains would paint the ground a dull shade of post-traumatic-stress disorder, all I could think about was how I spent every waking hour of the past two months wallowing about absolutely nothing. How this person’s spine was about to be shattered in eight different places, and I lost a girlfriend. How all the smiling photos of grandkids with missing front teeth and blue baby blankets would only collect dust for the next few weeks, and my band broke up. How, at best, a series of tubes, needles and beeping machines would be keeping this woman’s heart beating for the next year or so, and I was the one with a depression problem?

You want to talk to me about defining moments? You want to ask about life-changing situations? Well, you’ll never see life the same way after witnessing a woman, past the age of popular accessibility brutally rundown by some ignorant teenager, whose only recollection will be his father scolding him for the dents on the hood.
But, what’s even more breathtaking, is watching that white Envoy pass through a 70 some-odd year old woman, and her not fall over. I mean, she didn’t even flinch, she just kept walking. Not a bruise or a scratch on her body. And the Envoy just kept rolling, didn’t even turn down the music.
I sat there for a moment, then two, then three just staring at this death-defying miracle. Then two more cars appeared in that bus stop window, one much more transparent than the other, and passed through one another the same way. Two more cars, same trick of the light. I witnessed an old woman being killed the same way a dog barks at a mirror. The same way a bird flies into a window. But we weren’t wrong. That experience, at least to me, really happened. I DID in fact see a homicide. That stupid dog DOES in fact see another canine friend. That dodo bird DID see a second horizon. In our own way, we were right all along, and no one will know that but us.

For the last few moments of that ever waning sunset, I watched that bus stop window with nothing but hope. Because that, my friends, that simple trick of the light, held all the answers you’ll ever need.
Where organization meets freewill,
And there is no hysteria.
Where stimulation meets masturbation,
Without the extra hand.
Where the honest meet the modest,
And there is no pollution.
Where imagination shakes the hand of reality, looks him straight in the eye and says,
“Hello friend, nice to see you again.”



Joined July 2008

  • Artist

Artist's Description

i wrote this for speech class.
she said it was the most creative speech she’s ever heard…
good stuff.
true stroy too.

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