PossiblyMe's Journal

I have the strangest feeling, but it is here none the less and tapping its nails against the top of my head impatiently waiting for some coherence.  I've thought a good amount of moving to the east coast, a road trip through the countries uterus before being spanked along the shore to finally draw breath.  It is a strange thought to think of where you want to be reborn, starting over, just to grow old and perish as the clocks in my living room keep holding time.

New Hampshire seems to be coming into a clear view and it is making me open my eyes towards something I truly want: breath.  I don't want to inhale smoke, smog, pollutants and pungent purfumes waifing off clubbers as they pass by in enormous pumps. I want to watch fall arrive quietly, until I wake up to a burning forest with a yellow brick road traveling off down the stretch of woods I will live by.

I just cannot shake the feeling of being by the ocean. Something about it seems vaguely reminiscent of impending doom, something that is tempestuous, constant, and unnecessarily watching me.  If I walk out in the ocean, treading water up to the brim of my hat, I know I will become nothing more than food for the ocean, a rabid dog chasing its tail up the evolutionary ladder in a circle jerk motion.  I will be picked clean, until bones float along the drifting sand, across shipwrecks, plane crashes, uknown sea life still waiting to be discovered. I will transcend possibility and move throughout history. My eyes will be long digested, which is a shame since I would love to see what rests at the floor. I'll will be thousands of feet underwater when wars are waged, crime reaches its peak, civilization falls onto its own back and snaps. Economies will collapse, the world will eat itself whole while I rest against the hull of some long lost fleet unkown to anyone other than those will gills and a pentiant for fins.

Land will hold love, hatred, passion, lust, freedom, sadness, defilement, promise.  People will still wake up and go to their jobs, still hug their children or beat their wives. People will still be mugged, raped, slaughtered. News coverage will still hold bias and music will still carry its trend setting stability. Not a single thing will change while I crawl out like broken crabs, sprawling my memories along grains of sand being swept along by the current. The world will not stop when I end, I will merely stop adhering to it in general. 

There is something calming of knowing I will move to the east coast, to find peace, and a life for myself.  I will move into my apartment complex and open my door. Blank floors will greet me and empty cabinets will need food. I will lounge on my couch the first night and masturbate, wondering if the neighbors can see through the blinds. I will wipe my sweat off with a hand towel and climb into the embryo of this new life, kick its legs and move its hands, birth myself into the next day.  In the morning I will walk into the bathroom, turn on the faucet and smirk a half lunatics grin and half old mans wish grin.  I will watch the water slink out the faucet, brown with rust, then clear and steady, sort of the same way the current outside beats against the shoreline.