Whipped...

Whipped, Blue, Unique, and Imaginary: the short-lived life and hilarious death of an innocent, but stupid chameleon

On my laptop like a whipped writer, I wrote the words that are stuck in my head: I’d see a thousand shades of blue. I typed them quickly as if they were just rolling off my brain. The white walls were so plain and the picture in my mind of the spoken paradise was of a thousand shades of blue: bright, fluorescent, aquatically deep and wonderful.

So it’s true as he said. I’ve indeed been a miner for a heart of gold. It’d do me good. The strums he plays soothe me so and I’m sorry to say I can’t produce such an acoustic therapeutic sound myself. It moves me when I walk, it increases my speed. When I see that paradise my family’s become so accustomed to, I don’t see any shades of blue. I see hurt, anguish, snakes, and sunburns. I see evil eyes staring at me sending telepathic thoughts of ungratefulness. I wouldn’t blame them. I can’t foresee the future, but I know. Trust me. I know. I can’t stop thinking about it. It will change my life and I’m not sure my life needs to be changed because that’s all they throw at me: chaotic change.

I want to write a book without a plot. Just write and write sporadically changing the subject, thinking of deep themes even though they’d be invisible to anyone else. I want to publish something that’s never been seen by the world. I don’t want to write anything “funny”, I want people to squint their eyes at my book and think to themselves what the fuck? I want to write a book that can be go-to small talk in awkward situations, a book that people never fully understand, a book that they won’t feel comfortable referring to as a “book”. This right here could possibly be the very beginning. It will be my Lemony Snicket production, only I won’t have the lemon zest as he does, nor will I have a complete series.

Uniqueness. Everyone wants it. Everyone thinks they have it. But few people do. I can name a few, but I won’t. I don’t know if I could call myself unique. I hope so. That’s what I strive for, but so does everybody else. You’re right, I get it, it all makes sense, you’re the perfect person. So right. So wrong. Let’s all live in your imaginary life. Imaginary lives: that’s what everyone lives in. They can think they’re the red in a field of blue. Sure they can be the protagonist of their own fairy tale, but if they ever saw themselves through the eyes of another that tale would be shot to hell in less than a second. You never know just how you look through other people’s eyes. And, frankly, I’d rather not know because I know I’d hate myself.

I like my imaginary world. I’m the greatest, most magnificent person in that world. Soak it up now, get up on your high horse, toot your own horn. Nobody gives a fuck about you. Everyone is self-centered and they don’t pay attention to other people; every single person constantly “improves” their image so they’ll be accepted. So basically, we’re all blind because we don’t see anyone else. We only see ourselves and we only change for others. Too bad you end up being just like them. They won’t notice you. You can be a chameleon to society, I don’t care. But when a lumberjack cuts down your tree, don’t be surprised to see your life flashing before your eyes in a distant, dreamy manner. He didn’t see you because you are not different. Isn’t this what you wanted? To be like everybody else? To blend in with your surroundings?

Happy trails.

June 14, 2008; 12:56 am. Moj—out.