If I could wish for anything, you know, besides world peace and the end of hunger and disease and bad things in general, I would wish to have more brain power. I have so much in me that I want to do and learn, but I don’t have the skills to do and learn it all. I’d be a combination of Leslie Knope and Will Hunting, but without the baggage and need to build parks. I’ve been put into a body with a mind that can’t keep up with me. And yes, the torpor, I know, I know. I do read in my torpor state. I just don’t read fast enough to get everything in my head. Nor do I remember it all. I bet I’ve forgotten more in my life than I’ve learned. I find myself relearning stuff all the time. It’s a hassle.

I lived by myself for six months during my second year of college. I went out at night on weekends, but the rest of the time I spent on campus or at my apartment. Friends would come over now and then, even one once who I barely knew. Weird. I just thought of that. And I’d fill their ears with physics and architecture and art like an obsessed maniac. My head was mostly caught up in things that no one cared much about.

At the time, I had friends who lived in an old beat-up house off of Lower Greenville Avenue. The house was a dump and the neighborhood was scary, but the location couldn’t have been better otherwise. They had a small hallway that could be closed off, and they painted the walls in it black and installed a black light. They had these markers or crayons or something that would glow under the black light when the hallway was shut off. I drew all over that hallway. Eyes. Fish swimming all around. Other stuff that I can’t remember or choose not to. There were colorful skulls on the walls and all sorts of crazy designs. Before they moved out, the entire hallway, ceiling to floor, was solid with drawings.


I get to go to work in the morning and make some extra cash. It feels early in the evening right now, but it’s after 12 am. So I’m going to turn off this computer, stare at the dark ceiling and pretend my eyes are shut until they are.




Author: uncaged

When Picasso painted a blue Seated Woman in a Chair, he was unconsciously thinking of me.

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