boobryan:

guess what starts today

nhl season starts today

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It’s weird to feel like you miss someone you’re not even sure you know.

Lying in bed, to the wall, I whispered, “Yes. Always yes,” and hoped that something small and magical would happen.

Time was passing like a hand waving from a train I wanted to be on. 
I hope you never have to think about anything as much as I think about you.
How terribly unfair that his whole self aches because of the shape of a shoulder, the soft line of a hip.

"She’s got a nice way about her,"

or how it always starts,

or so it always goes,

but not in ways you think it will

just in ways you know you don’t want it to,

really?

Really?

I’ve got shelves of books with unwrapped backings of spines with no names and pages with no words, just the same color paint thrown up on each and every thread, and the tips curl for certain parts, parts where subtle changes occur. Still, variations on the same thing. Really?

I got that same belt still, that one that hung low on a cold morning when you woke up, spun about and all the worst parts of you were boiled over and your edges frayed. You remember. And you remember sitting on the steps outside the apartment telling this story to her like it was some noble thing, like you thought that honesty really still held any kind of weight in a day like this, in a life like this. Honest, too much. Honest and stupid and funny-faced. Always the way.

But you’re still good, right?

Yeah, I’m good. I’m fine. I’m getting by.

That’s good. 

It is, man. It really is. It’s nice.

So, what’ve you been up to?

Nothing. Nothing really. Haven’t talked much to anyone.

Really?

Yeah. I mean, you and Matt, yeah, but you know all that. And everyone else, they’re all, they’re there, but they’re…they’re hers man. 

Not really.

But really. It’s lame. Let’s drop it.

Alright.

I’m good, man. It’s good seeing you.

You too, brother.

Really?

You get older. You get by, and you get older and everyone else is getting older at the same time. Everyone is getting older at the same time. You can’t stop that.

It is the end of August and I am 28 now and in 7 months I will be 29 and I don’t think those matters really matter but I just saw that this post will be my 700th post so maybe numbers do matter because I wanted to do something different. Make that number count. Or some shit. But also maybe it does matter when your friends are all the same and are successful and family-lived and you are just ambling about and smashing into things like, what the Hell am I even doing anymore? when all you secretly want is that stability and goodness and love, but do you. Really? Really, do you? Sabotaging things left and right like not doing it before the best-by date’s gonna fuck your shit up, for real? Expiring coupons, what a fucker. Eh, the fuck’s it matter anyhow? Everyone’s got their own shit. We all got our own shit. Own it and be well and we’re all here to help the other, right? Right.

Jack lay low under a rising tree, in the dark of cold night, light of a full moon bleeding into the settling fog. The grass is crisp and fresh in the way Jack remembers grass being fresh after an early morning cut when Pops made him and his brother trim it down, once a week, along with the neighbors who were Jack’s great grandparents. Old and young in the same blood, in the same cul-de-sac. Family trees fell dead leaves that Jack corralled and bagged, threw spent lines of lived lives into plastic bags for the mornings. Hated it. Bagged the same things, years later, court ordered, with a man named Paul in brown boots and powdered Gatorade, two weekends in a row. Cut the fat of the KFC in the small breaks, like it was something he was doing forever, wearing brown boots and scraping lakes. Life, for Paul, tragedy, for Jack. That fresh, new regret. 

So, that’s it?

That’s it.

You’re really going?

Yeah. I think I’ve got to. It’s something I’ve got to do.

Why?

Because, man. Because I can’t do it here anymore.

Seems like a cop-out.

It’s a start over. A reset. I mean, c’mon, you don’t get it.

No. I get it. I do. I just, I don’t think you should cut out because of one thing.

It’s not just one thing, though. It’s a bleed, man. It’s all things now.

I guess.

Everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows me, even when they don’t know. They know me, and I know them and I don’t want to fucking know them. 

Yeah.

I can’t, I don’t want to do it anymore. It’s fucking lame, but, I mean c’mon. 

I know, brah.

I just need a fresh, good start.

I can respect that.

Thanks, man.

700 posts. Started in 2007. 7 months. Something, something 7. Seems like a good place for a fresh start. 

You turn everything off, and everything gets real quiet and stops, and you’re not so much laughing anymore and you’re not really doing anything at all. It’s just quiet again, and you can hear the dog across the street and the slight drip-drip-drip of the faucet, but everything else is just still, still and quiet and low again, like fog in the night.


There’s always peace in a strong cup of black coffee

There’s always peace in a strong cup of black coffee

  

vajohnathan:

Dirty Projectors - About to Die