the pessimist

 

I just felt like roasting myself tonight

I’ve gone inside myself to try and find out what is in there.  Everyone likes to think that there is a deeper meaning in life.  Rather life being a tragic farce in which you are never truly happy.  Only the illusion of happiness sprinkled in occasionally with boredom and disappointment.  Pessimism seems to be a handy remedy when dealing with existential crises.  What’s the meaning of life?  Who really cares?  The times we are most emotionally stable are in times of indifference.  Learning to let go of the things we cannot control is probably the greatest trait for one to possess.  The main motivation for my writing is based entirely on masochism and trying to not be one of the fucking idiots that I deal with on a daily basis.  I try to think that I’m deep and intelligent but in reality I’m just an insecure misogynist with commitment issues.  I’ve heard that hatred of others is just a projection of hatred of ones self and I believe it.  But once again we come to the “accept the things we cannot change” concept.  I’ve made mistakes that I have learned from and some that I haven’t.  At the very least I try to be aware of myself and remain humble at all times.

 

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The Ash Tray

It sat on the table droll and beckoning them like any other empty bowl.  It was white and round with three notches spaced equidistant around it to place a still burning stogie.  There was only one small burn in the middle of it.  The ash tray was emptied out routinely without thought, a reflex, like when the doctor hits your patella with that small rubber hammer.  The way it was filled up was more enigmatic

Large deposits are made on nights when they arrived home late, and still from nightly festivities.  Other times they would sit and inebriate themselves with neat whiskey and no intention of departure from the home or the table at which they sat with the ash tray.  These nights were also similar to reflexes, just reactions from stress at work and being in their twenties.  But on certain nights there was a different kind of ash filling the little bowl.  An experience, a palpable memory of the departed.  There were times when they needed to use it, even if it was only once.

The Cigarette rested between his middle finger and index as smoke idly rose to the ceiling.  A puff, an inhale, a release, and then a flick which broke off the ash and with it sadness and longing.  Heartache followed and eventually anger and despair.  The emotions in the ash tray weren’t always spoken and were far from disingenuous.  A moment of introspection.  The ash in the tray made it heavier with no change in weight, made it deeper with no change in dimension.

It was drunken nights with others or sometimes it was the dark nights alone.  It was always filled with some sort of emotion.  If you looked in the ash tray on one of the days before they emptied the contents, you wouldn’t see them, you would see the ones who had abandoned them.

 

Notes:

The main inspiration that produced this story was actually letting my emotions and feelings get the best of me until I felt the urge to smoke.  The cigarettes were temporary but the ash tray was always there.  So i felt like rather than focusing on the cigarettes themselves I would focus on the place where I deposited them.  The funny thing is I don’t normally smoke but I do use it as a scapegoat sometimes.  Sometimes when I feel longing for a particular someone be it female or family I tend to get down and to get stressed and to think negatively.  I’m not saying that smoking is the most positive outlet for these stresses but sometimes I find myself saying “man I could use a smoke”

 

maps

I found her with her back turned towards me.  The red lights of the stage made her skin glow like a lava lamp in a dark room.  When I came around a second time she was outside sitting on a black satin couch with her right leg crossed over her left.  She looked at me with her lips pursed like her drink was too sweet.  When she spoke, the words came out like a phonograph, soft yet firm and with character.  “I’m a cartographer” she said to me with a tone like I didn’t know what that was.  “I don’t like your latitude” I tried to joke but she didn’t laugh.  There are some nights in Hollywood where you can find a place with live music that resembles something with a soul.  We moved over the black and white keys of the piano and tapped our feet with the percussion.  She had long black curls that bounced when she moved.  Her glasses looked like they were relics from high school, but they still worked, so she kept them.  The black dress she wore told me she had work tomorrow.  She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense of the word.  She had situational beauty.  The minute hand raced around my watch and as she departed I reached my hand out only to grasp hot air and a few notes from the band.

 

Notes:

This is fiction but I did actually meet a girl one time who told me she was a cartographer.