"I'm so sick of tests. Go ahead and flunk my ass."
I'd really like to get away from it all-- there's something about the closed door that tells me 'The decision's been made. You have no part in this.'
I feel like I need to pack up and take off. I want a clean slate. No ties; I want to take the raw materials and tie them together myself. I want to do it my own way and I don't care anymore what others think. I don't care to be flexible; I don't care to be a good boy.
I don't need college to make me smarter-- I'd thought I'd proven myself already through twelve years of litany; I don't get this. I don't want to be doing this. I want to be alone; I want to hovel and hermit away and build my own metropolis, my own Utopia. I think I just might.
Here I am again-- trying to defy the indefiable. Writing in the EXACT SAME notebook I gave up on a year ago.
A ghost of my past sits to my right-- and yet, it was I who chose to sit here. I left the present, and found myself again in the past. It seems I can not run forward if I am constantly denying the present; this leaves nowhere to flee but into the past-- and therein lies dementia, schizophrenia, and cyclical, self-fulfilling prophecies of impending doom.
The ghost in my play has spoken. He says he thought I'd left town. I did. I've never been in this world. He says school's not supposed to be fun. He says he procrastinated until the last weekend, like me-- and he pulled it off with a 99%-- like I could have.
'Good luck to you.'
This your last year here?
Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know.
He is gone now-- should I be sitting where he was just moments ago?
All that is left is the dissipating warmth.
I want to run away again, and
(Burned out, turned off)
I say I don't know why, again.
'I thought you were a pretty good student-- that you couldn't have left for that reason.'
I don't like this world. I don't like my role in it, I don't like for the path to be so heavily-tread.
He's going to Chicago-- living with his parents is a joke. Work will be full-time. School is part-time.
Can we be the Film Noir anti-hero and anti-heroine together?
Can we be the drifters, the ghosts, the unseen?
I want to run away again;
I say I don't know why again.
I'm rememb'ring and forgetting again.
I'm lying and slowly dying again.
But ah, oh-- flight of fancy!:
to be lying and slowly dying--
this is the dream I live.
These are the worlds I create.
My cloak, my dagger, my doomsday
clock, ticking away--
this is the day to thrive.
Yet I choose to hide away.
A long distance to run, today.
Burned out; turned off--
no place is secret or sacred.
Ribs plied open-- empty space bare;
feast for starving eyes.
And I:
chained, immobile-- I:
witty specimen.
Pick my brain apart again.
Leave me to seep and evacuate;
shuck off oldskin--
rise from the carpet of dead leaves and ashes
all cloaked in loam and permafrost.
Frightful, speeding
flight to the North--
to dens and caves of watery ice.
Here is Home for now--
until I'm found alive again.
We artists must slyly craft our guise
to fool unfettered, probing eyes--
until we're found alive, again.
Breathing and thriving outside, again.
Until we're found alive.
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