A life like a child

disjointed, but nonetheless fruitful

byzantiumlifestyle — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 05:30:58 +0000

I am merely a spectator.

Is it possible that Mr. Hyde only existed because of Dr. Jekyll’s own willingness to his existence? Perhaps it was just easier to allow something else to take over. Sometimes, in my life, autopilot kicks in and I’m coasting through each day. I feel like a zombie, and that’s what I am. My body is merely a shell of my former self. My life becomes a spectator sport, because all life is a spectator sport.

If Dr. Jekyll met Mr. Hyde, would he like him? Would the thrill of meeting such an antithesis to himself overcome his own fear of being torn to pieces? Sometimes, we must be overwhelmed by something so big, so amazing that the consequences are miniscule in comparison to the rewards. We need to stop thinking about being torn to pieces and find out what attracted us here in the first place… our own curiosity of what lies inside our hearts.

Coasting through the day allows one to see what lies inside of their own heart.

I found these in my iMac’s drop box. I had written them a long time ago on a day in which my brother had returned from college. I typed this up on his computer, my thoughts were jumbled, and placed it in my drop box. Today I found it and am very glad I did.

Cadillac ’08

byzantiumlifestyle — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 03:30:35 +0000

His thumb jutted out, parallel to his body. Cars whizzing by, his eyes glaze over behind dark sunglasses. The sweat forming on his brow is absorbed by a bright red bandana around his head. The gallon water jug forces his shoulder to sag, he lets it fall gently to the ground. It’s been a good eight hours since he last ate, his stomach turns circles.

A car eases to the side of the road and the passenger side window rolls down. His voice carries to the man, asking where he’s headed. The bandana-clad man saunters to the window, leaning over to see inside. He mumbles his destination and climbs in, grabbing his pack and water. He throws his items into the backseat.

They go for a hundred miles in silence. The radio tinkles faintly with some new hit of the week, and our main character wakes up. He notes the time and asks where they are. The driver tells him they’re in Portland most likely. College students flock on street corners, chatting about how artistic they are. They compare spoils and point out their scars. “Have you ever heard of anything like that?” they say to each other.

They pull into a small restaurant and get out. The driver orders a combo meal and his passenger pulls a sandwhich out of his pack. They eat quietly, but the driver glances up at the man and asks, “Why are you going to Vancouver?” The man explains a poorly thought out story about his dead wife’s brother needing some money from her savings account and only he could bring it to him, then resumes eating. The driver laughs and then comments, “So you’re saying you want to be left here?”

“What?”

“I figured that you were trying to get me to ditch you,” he said. “You know, you were trying to rile me up and get me to head out.” A smile played on his lips. The man shook his head nervously and disagreed.

“I just need to get away from all this,” he said, motioning around his head. The driver asked him what “this” was.

He sighed, exasperated. “I have this problem… I hear… things. Voices, you know, drifting in and out of earshot. It’s like I can hear people talking, but they’re not talking to me. They used to, but now even the voices in my head are too cool for me. Sometimes, I’ll be walking around and I’ll hear them suddenly stop, like they’re pretending they aren’t there. I’ll just shrug it off, you know?” His mouth became a thin line, barely visible. “It’s like… I’m constantly in a storm, now. I’m just trying to stay afloat. You ever heard that quote, ‘You gotta love livin’, baby, because dying is a pain in the ass.’? For me, living is a pain in the ass, and sometimes it seems like it would be so much easier just to die.”

“Then why don’t you? You seem so set on dying, so why don’t you?”

“That’s why I’m going to Vancouver. I know a girl up there, she fell out of love with me. She’s the reason I hear these things. I’m going to ask her how to get rid of them. I will never, ever be content with dying while I still hear these voices.”

The driver nods, pushing his plate to the side. They both step outside and climb into the car. Easing onto the highway, a bandana rests on a reclined seat.

“You know, I wanted to kill myself, too,” says the driver.

“How’d you get over it?”

“I stole a car, I decided I would drive until I ran out of gas then die where I landed.”

The man sits up and laughs quietly. “Maybe stopping at the gas station a few miles back wasn’t such a great idea then.”

“I thought it’d be nice to help you ou-”

Metal tore through metal, tires screech and a horn is going off. A bandana soaks up the blood that would be dripping off the man’s forehead. The driver slumps lifelessly. As the bandana clad man fights the pain away, his vision blurs.

“About time, now we can leave,” says a woman.
A man laughs, “I know! I thought he’d never be finished.”
“Oh my God, are you okay?!” screams a woman climbing out of her car.

He looks up, a woman stands there.

“Thomas?” she says. “Oh, Thomas! Shit, shit, shit, what have I done? Don’t die, I… I’ll fix this, I’ll fix all of this.”

“She’s wasting her breath, he’s as good as gone,” chimes a voice as the bandana slumps.
“About time.”

Decrepit ruins of a once brilliant mind.

byzantiumlifestyle — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 05:31:35 +0000

I think I’m done. Not with this, but with tonight. It’s getting emotional, but nobody’s talking to me or communicating at all. You told me tonight that you’re surprised you’re alive, and the simple fact is I think I might be madly in love with you. I sometimes wonder if I really am, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t possibly know anything about anything. You told me that you hated your dad. I don’t want you to hate your dad anymore, because he’s trying his best or at least I hope he is. But all I want right now is to retire to your bed, not my own. Because I’m tired as fuck and I need to be with you. I need to be with you. I need to be with you right now. I haven’t wrote a solid story in a long time, does this have anything to do with the fact that my mind isn’t working like it used to?

I really want to be in love with you.

Rant.

byzantiumlifestyle — Sat, 09 Aug 2008 05:31:16 +0000

Who are you talking to when you close your eyes? Who do you sing to? Whose name do you pant fervently when there’s a bump downstairs? Because right now it’s time to face the facts: Do you know who God is? Because if we had to judge by your life the constant scale that you do your goddamn self-righteous balancing act with, I think the answer is no.

Here’s the thing, God doesn’t fit your perception of reality. You think God lives real-time? God doesn’t even exist in the same time as you! The time you know is nothing to Him, He lives outside of it. You think God doesn’t care if you’re “just lying” or “just smoking”? Realize your own foolishness! You’re ignorant to think that. It doesn’t matter that you could be doing worse things, it matters that you ARE DOING THINGS.

So realize who you’re talking to in your bed at night. Realize that you are small and he is big. Stop thinking you’re right.

(Read the comments)

August 7

byzantiumlifestyle — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 03:47:10 +0000

Today a disease came upon me. It crept all around my body while I slept, planning its attack. By the time I woke up I was a lost cause; it’s tentacles were already wrapped around my neck. All through the day it grew tighter and tighter, not venturing to let go. Today, I saw what it was going to be like when both of my brothers move out. And you know what? It fucking sucked. My legs became lead, not willing to move at my bidding. My head was cloudy and forgetful. My tongue, just as bad, tied up constantly and became slow and dull. I was alone in my house, physically, not mentally. But mentally perhaps I was alone too. Maybe it was the physical emptiness echoing my own mental emptiness that made me realize… I am alone. Now not alone in the sense that I have nobody to confide in; I have God, I have friends, I have family. But alone in the sense that at the first sign of salvation, an invitation to a social event, I became ecstatic. The same loneliness that strangled me throughout the day lept off my shoulders.

I needed this.

A subjective interview conducted on July 16.

byzantiumlifestyle — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 02:00:26 +0000

“So there’s this club,” says a shadowed face underneath a baseball cap, “and it’s huge. I mean, it’s gigantic. There’s a whole industry catering to the every whim of this club.”

This whole interview had an uneasy feel to it. The man I spoke to never once revealed his face, nor did he speak in his natural tone.

“No one wants anyone to know they’re in it, you see. Because their wives, their kids, their neighbors would flip out. All they did to get in was let their imagination wander, then think, ‘Hey, one look won’t hurt.’ Next thing they know, they’ve been looking at porn every day for 6 years.”

The ambiguous nature of the club was soon revealed, while the man sitting across from me hung his head and twiddled his thumbs.

“Here’s the real kicker, no one knows anyone else in the club. You could be in it for all I know, but I would never tell you I’m in it, and vice versa.”

Hopelessness radiated from the hunched body.

“We’re a generation of ‘I am’ not ‘I will.’ All we see is ‘I am a pornography addict,’ not ‘I will make something of my life.’ That’s how society is as a whole though. We say ‘I am a rich, suburban, white male’ and ‘I am working class.’ We don’t notice that it could be ‘Sure, I may be homeless and poor, but I will be a better person than my parents,’ or ‘I may be stuck in this suburb, but I will find life.’ I grew up thinking ‘I am too good to be like those perverts.’ But now I am one. So now I think ‘I will get better.’”

When I asked how that was working, a short scoff escaped his lips.

“Not well. See, I can think ‘I will’ all I want. But thanks to 43 years of saying ‘I am,’ I’m going nowhere fast.”

He left my office in tears.

Dear World

byzantiumlifestyle — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 17:02:26 +0000

To whom it may concern,
Here’s the thing, I have no reason to commit suicide. Plain and simple, I am a suburban white child who’s family paid for everything he ever wanted. But here in this white-picket fence neighborhood one gets bored easily. Out of boredom comes complacency, and out of that comes… well this, a boy hanging from his ceiling fan.

So now, in my final moments, I’ve been thinking. How could I have lived with myself so far? I’m… pathetic. I am a mass consumer a social parasite. I am the problem with this world. People like me are the reason the world sucks so much. So think of it this way: This isn’t a suicide, this is a blessing bestowed upon the earth. I would write more, but now I’m excited. Goodbye.

Oh yeah, and you’re welcome.

Love,
Your next-door neighbor
The child across the street
The boy upstairs
Your child
Your friend
Your acquaintance
Your classmate

Note: Suicide is a real problem, and I am not making light of the subject. This piece of total fiction is meant to bring attention to a very, very immense problem. Depression and suicidal thoughts do not plague only those in broken homes and those who are down and out. Suicidal thoughts don’t restrict themselves to those below the poverty line, it runs rampant through teenagers and adults, even, from all backgrounds and upbringings. If you, or someone you know has had suicidal thoughts, they need help; please call 1-800-SUICIDE. Do not take that sort of thing lightly.

Ground Zero

byzantiumlifestyle — Sun, 13 Jul 2008 05:17:56 +0000

It seems that it’s the moments where we feel the most down, the most out that we finally start to piece together this puzzle of a world. It’s those days when the clouds roll in and the rain doesn’t come, but it waits with anticipation for the right moment to fall. But it will never fall, because we, as humans, do not give it the opportunity to think to itself, “Now is when I’m meant to fall.”

But right here, right now is when I am meant to fall.

This time, this year is so much bigger than I. Me. Kyler. Whoever I am these days, because you know what? I’m not even totally sure anymore. My personality changes with the weather and I live in Oklahoma, okay?

But right here, right now is where I’ve fallen.

I’ve fallen so hard, that I won’t get up, simply because getting up would mean I would have to start walking away, and that would be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. So now, I’ll stay in the dirt and I’ll stay down, stay out, and stay busy focusing on how hard I’ve fallen and how hard I need to focus.

Because right here, right now… this is the best it’s ever felt.

Transcribed on a Headstone

byzantiumlifestyle — Thu, 08 May 2008 20:10:48 +0000

The busy streets of new York race beneath me. It’s a powerful feeling, knowing you can stop traffic with one false footfall. A man walks up behind me. We exchange hellos and he asks me what’s wrong.

“You can’t trust people anymore, chief. They’ll tell you they’re going to the store and end up in Vegas. They’ll borrow your money with no intention of returning it. It ain’t worth it anymore.” Then he moves close, putting his hand out. “I don’t want your sympathy… could you leave? This is kind of personal.”

His eyes housed shotgun shells and that look blew me away. “You think this is about you?” he yells. He takes a step closer, his chest nearly touching mine. “Listen here, it’s people like you who make me sick. People who whine and complain, but that’s all. Go ahead, do it! See who misses you! I came up here to help you, you coward. But now, I’m willing to push you myself.” His whisper was fierce and bit into me like a rabid dog.

Zoom out to see the ground, twenty stories below me. Thank God for cinematics.

He scoffs and turns away. I call out to him. “All I need… is for you to say go.”

“Yeah, because today I woke up and thought, ‘Hey, I really want to give someone permission to kill themself.’” Then he starts to descend back into the building, his head dripping further and further underwater. I rock backwards on my heels.

Resistance doesn’t meet me. I heard somehwere that after you jump, you regret it. There’s no regret, but I’m probably just in shock. “It was nice meeting you!” I call out. The busy streets of New York race beneath me… it’s a powerful feeling. “This must be what God feels like.”

I hit the ground laughing.

Freedom.

byzantiumlifestyle — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 02:40:08 +0000

Do you know how fast a bullet travels?

Say you’re four-hundred feet away from me. If I shoot, it will take one thirty-one million, forthy-nine thousand, six hundredth of a year to hit you. One. Single. Second. Now, say you were a foot away. It would take one four hundredth of a second for that bullet to tear through your teeth, chew up your tongue, spit it out, and give you one helluva sore throat.

You see, I didn’t know this. I didn’t know that had that long. Maybe, just maybe, during that four hundredth of a second I could have prayed, said I was sorry, said goodbye; anything would have been better than just standing there, crying and pissing all over myself.

Maybe I could have hit him, stopped him. But I didn’t. I guess I figured that as soon as he pulled the trigger I would be dead. I didn’t realize that it would take some time… or that I would live through it.

Now I’m in a hospital, a catheter in me and another tube down my throat. The similarities between these two tubes are enough to make me attempt to spit it out. Of course that doesn’t work, seeing as how whenever I try to take a big enough breath to actually exhale it all goes out the back of my throat.

Is this what I’ve been reduced to? Trying to spit out throat-catheters? Not being able to breathe on my own? Having to have piss sucked out of me only to see it sitting next to me? I would have been better off dying!

Dying… here. Slowly, but steadily I am indeed dying. I’m merely elongating the process that some stranger started in my house. Some heavenly stranger that tried to save me. When you’re half-naked on a hospital bed you have a lot of time to think, and I’ve been doing just that. I think I’m dying now? I think this is sad? What’s sad is trudging to dead-end job that I fantasize about blowing up. Every. Day. What’s sad is hating your family so much that you pretend you’re sick so you can go to bed early and not have to talk to them.

What’s sad, is being so miserable that you pull your own life support.
What’s sad, is that this is the happiest I’ve ever been.