Friday, February 26, 2010
Here's another one of my silly first person POV bizarre thoughts journal entry-type things. Enjoy, cringe, whatever your pleasure.
The darkness thrummed softly in my ear, radiating a pressure in my sinus cavity that grew exponentially until I realized it was just the blood pounding in my brain, furiously pumped there by my heart because I let my thoughts stray to him.
Stupid thoughts. Sometimes I wish I was more like a Zen master who can control their thoughts and emotions, or simply take down the person that haunts my mind with a swift roundhouse kick to the head.
Or maybe that’s Chuck Norris. I get confused sometimes.
A horn blew in the distance, the deep cry of the freight train which tells people to get the hell out of the way because they are too big to stop for just anyone. Hancock, obviously, or Superman, but that’s about it. It’s said the sound of a train’s horn is the saddest sound in the world, but what’s sad about telling people to get out of the way?
Not to mention the train has only been in common usage since the 1800s, so what was the most mournful sound before that? I want to know who came up with the Mournful Scale, anyway. The sound of my bank’s ATM beeping at me while it displays ‘Your account is insufficient to support this transaction’ is pretty damn mournful to me.
So is the sound my phone makes when he doesn’t call.
Headlights danced across my ceiling as a car sped by, and I wondered where it was that they needed to get to in such a hurry. Maybe someone was waiting for them. Maybe they were late for work.
Maybe their crack-head ho was giving birth prematurely to a drug addicted baby in the backseat and they were trying to get to the river fast enough to dump them in it before there was blood all over the plum leather interior.
I pulled my pillow closer and buried my face in it, pretending it smelled like him. His head had never rested there, and I’ve no idea what he smells like, but I’ve got a pretty good imagination. I’ve decided that he smells like trees and the ocean and those little cinnamon bits that cover the top of a canned Pillsbury roll.
Sometimes he smells like fingernail polish remover, but that could actually be my hand beneath the pillow. I don’t think he paints his nails.
Happy Friday, y'all.