“Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind”
These wild, little, tortuous thoughts with no beginnings and no ends– slip in and out into my waking day—that is if I actually am awake—because, although I remember waking up, (getting up, dressing up, driving up) I do not remember being up. Only being down and walking around hoping no one I know will bump into me—ask me difficult questions like “how are you?” To which I could only reply “fine” because if I actually take the time to think of a truthful answer, I will come up with nothing concrete. As always, I am the abstract of myself. I am the concept that men fall in love with but never the one they actually love. The one that offers up elysian moments of tender adoration in diaphanous smoky quantities.
But they fall in love with their friends. And I am not real enough to be their friend. I back away. I keep my own counsel. I hold my tongue. Then I bolt.
I think too much. I do not breathe enough. I exist, holding air in me afraid to let it out lest I deflate. And yet. And yet. And yet…I laugh and joke and devil-may-care-it all the way to irrevocable heartbreak each and every time. It is autumn when the skies are dull, even in the high noon of day when everything seems to look damp and lack-lustre–when even the sun cannot be bothered to really shine. It is a Concept Sun and everyone is happy to see it but—in the back of their minds—everyone secretly wishes for Real Sun to come out. The one they met on holiday abroad. The one that they passionately threw themselves into and let themselves burn and peel and ache.
But I looked in the mirror and I look fab.
My mother always said I was too individual not to do things the way I wanted and that I thought nothing of throwing convention to the wind. So in a way, it makes sense that I give over to the music of the words rather than the actual structure of the sentence. Perhaps this is why I love Kerouac so much. He set the precedent for the literary wayward to easy-free-flow our thoughts onto the page. Thanks, daddy-o.