kleptomaniac

Thoughts Trapped in the Molasses of the Mind.

Submitted by kleptomaniac on Sat.02.06.10 11:53pm

His ideas and ambitions are generally ineffectual, creative but unrefined. His thoughts a distant hazy mass, wrapping a golden marble of hope. His instincts aren't instincts, but testaments to his own immaturity. His head is an answer seeking a problem, an issue without an argument, a coven missing a ritual. His rebuttals aren't.

Lost in the bureaucracy of his impulses, he is unable to pursue a dream without questioning his own motives. He loves, but fears he's an annoyance. He imagines himself a dot.

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I had a vision once. The feeling was as if the blood in my heart had finally reached my starving mind after years of waiting. I saw in this vision myself doing things I had only thought about in my mind. I saw my arms and legs moving as though my jilted personality had finally found a purpose for all the potential energy stored inside my circuits. In this vision, I said many things, and shared my emotions with a background of colorful characters painted on the organic tapestries that were draped over my retinas. These persons were as real as you and I, who are both colorful figures painted onto tapestries that are seared onto the eyes of the people we know. And yes, these people were all two dimensional... It might not have been a vision.

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Eyes

Submitted by kleptomaniac on Wed.01.27.10 8:40pm

I've seen those eyes before... eyes that stare back and offer me a warm blanket for my shivering heart, eyes that waver little and comfort much, eyes that show me I haven't lost it yet. I've seen that face before, that face that hasn't lost much of its tenderness, that has not gained the sharp quality of the aging, that reminds me of a time without the wrinkles that cover my own personality. Those hands, I recognize them, though they've changed... they don't seem as soft and smooth as I remembered them. Those hands, they've scarred, and they've been burned by years of toil under the indiscriminate hazing of industrial bleaching liquids, made rough by hundreds of thousands of hours scrubbing away the dirtiness of life trying to make a living. That back, with a spine residing in it that has begun to give in to its exhaustion, struggling to lift the body of a person who's spirit and will are the only things giving it the strength to push on. She's not old yet, no. She still smiles at me and replies to my probing questions...

"I'm not old, yet."

And yet I'm struck with a sadness I believe has transfered from her soul into mine. She's almost twice my age, but she still finds time to talk, and sometimes to sing. And in her harmonies, I have witnessed her humanity, and I have realized that though sometimes she sings with her mouth, and other times, with her hands, she's always singing, even when she's just talking with me, smiling.

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Loved ones

Submitted by kleptomaniac on Fri.01.22.10 11:48am

A dream is like a first love, an abrupt and strong funneling of emotions shortly followed by one waking up. Yet, dreams do not often punctuate a person's essence as deeply as their first couple of loved ones do. Sometimes, even after so much time has passed, they are all one can think about.

And yet, how can it be wrong to dive into one's old memories and feel like a kid again. Those memories of old an adult would say are filled to the top with ignorance, a feeling adults pretend to have forgotten. Yet those of them who've realised that the've made the mistake of growing up can appreciate how much simpler love used to be. They laugh at how their parents had to pick them up after dates, smile when they remember how low maintenance their romances were, and how open we all were to each other's embraces.

Today, this person dreamed of several people he misses dearly, of people who he thought he hated, of people who he had to see go far away, of people who he left behind, of a girl he met in Mexico almost five years ago, a three day relationship, and of her pretty face, with a name as sweet as her personality, Dulce Maria.

The world pulls us all together, forcefully, and without the slightest hesitation, knowing that we have grown up into bigger babies, with inflated egos and ids that can only escape with a bit of booze. I saw her again during Christmas, and I felt so ashamed of myself that I couldn't go up to her to start a conversation. I thought too much of consequences, reality, and the future to just initiate a conversation with this person I hadn't talked to in five fucking years. What have I become? How can I go back? I wanna be a kid again.

Last night I dreamt of a druid, a person who cast a spell on me so profound that I still can't get over her. She had so much energy that she glowed, a girl that almost seemed timeless, with a sexual maturity that at the time I could not handle. She was too hot, a star that I couldn't hold on to. Before I had realised I loved her, she was gone.

Gone just like everyone else, everyone I had loved and hated has grown up, everyone who had gripped on tightly to my soul has ripped away a part of me that I want back. In my head, my mind is kicking and screaming, crying for things to change. If you saw me now, you wouldn't be able to tell.

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I could write a book about this.

Submitted by kleptomaniac on Fri.01.15.10 2:26pm

Of all the half hearted things Columbus did, the worst could have been telling his dear old boss, the Old but still ambitious King of Spain, blessed by god to acrue as much wealth as he could before death, determined to make something of the sandy patch of clay he owned by birthright, blinded to the point of neurosis by the invasive policies of the recently created Dutch East India company, about the sparsly settled jungle country called Hispania. Thanks to that fucker, I was born, and now I'm sitting in a bench wondering if signing up for the US air force was such a good idea. Maybe I'll go live in Jalisco or some shit.

Fuck it, Korea isn't that bad of a place.

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Oh yeah, Melo?

Submitted by kleptomaniac on Sun.12.13.09 7:19am
I wrote a story for Melo, and it decided to log me off while I was typing it. I clicked submit now, Melo sent me to the front page and told me to go fuck myself. I really want to throw my laptop on the ground and step on it right now.
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My headphones broke.

Submitted by kleptomaniac on Thu.11.05.09 2:16am
My headphones broke. It was violent. The force of my big, mushy head was too much for my headphones' thin and delicate wiring. Leaving my desk with my headphones still on, while they were attached to a computing box, did it for my poor cans. The wire snapped, and in its snapping, I stopped feeling happy. Happiness was definitely not the feeling I was experiencing at the moment. It was more akin to madness than any other sensation. A sudden urge to throw my ear huggers out the window and into a hobo piss littered alleyway emerged. But I didn't throw my headphones away, for I knew I could fix them if I tried. I had soldering equipment somewhere in my garage, which I have used before to patch up the same pair of headphones that now lay broken on the ground. I had neglected to use electrical tape on the area of my repair, and now I have paid the price.

Now, one just has to find the urge to do it. One isn't very happy that they have to fix their equipment again. One would rather sit down and use a pair of old and crummy ear buds, the kind that are blown out and don't go well while listening to the KLF. Eventually, one is gonna get tired of those pieces of crap and is gonna solder that wire together. That headphone still has another year in it, one reckons...
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In this room.

Submitted by kleptomaniac on Mon.11.02.09 7:00pm
In this room there are two big windows, there is one casket shaped guitar case, there is a cup filled with orange juice, there is a phone and a phone book, a notepad, there is a cigarette tray shaped like a Chinese dragon, there are two monitors lit up on top of a fake plywood Ikea work desk, a fake plywood Ikea bookcase:

dozens of old discover magazines
two books on how to have sex
a couple C# books
a 3.0 Player's Handbook
an algebra book
a high school diploma (with tassel still attached)
several crappy compact disks
a World of Warcraft case
two reams of college ruled paper
two vinyl records someone didn't pay for
a stick of deodorant

there is a wallet, a CD being used as a coaster, a cup with pencils in it, there are scraps of paper by a lamp, there is an electric fan pointed directly at an empty office chair, clothes both dirty and clean strewn about, there is a laptop, there are two stacks of books that haven't been read, a soldering iron, a broken physical storage disk, there are four cathode ray tube monitors on the floor, there is a spider, there is a web, an electric amplifier, a portable tube radio, a reversi game set, there is a black light hung up on a wall providing the illusion that it ever gets used, a world atlas that still declares there's still a union of socialist social republics somewhere in the east, and a willingness to show a bit of my surroundings to a bunch of strangers.

Nothing special.
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