It's a Saturday and I am alive. Despite the dream theatre that my memory has turned into. Even in a moment while creating my life I feel as though I am not myself. I am an actor. I am a ghost. I am a quick breeze that blows violently as if to spite the trees and things hanging in the air. But my anger is short lived and lacking purpose. I am empty. I am lost. I wonder if I am not waiting for something to explode. To be full and held. I have heard that death is the road to awe; but do not feel courageous or desperate enough to find out. Besides I cant bear the thought of all the sympathy. It makes my mind nervous and stupid like an animal being carefully observed at the zoo.

Yes, alive. And if things are going to continue so optimistically I might as well be thankful it is a Saturday, as Saturdays are quite conclusively the only days which belong wholely to myself and are begun not by the ravings of the time that binds me, but by the sun. The soft slow glow that paws at my shades, consciously sewn thin. My window faces west so it's a subtle light, orange and not intrusive in the least. If I were a heavier sleeper I might find myself sleeping until mid day, and that's not to say I haven't, but today at least I'm glad my morning isn't wasted on idle sleep. I've often considered that an event effecting only oneself is worthless if unremembered, and I do never remember my dreams.

It's mid-january so the sun doesn't manage to fill the window until nearly 9:00am. Late by some accounts, but neither late nor early by mine. The right time to enjoy a patio too rarely used. Especially considering that that's why I settled for the apartment, the view from the small closet sized porch. It looks out on a creek which from far away one can imagine is a lake. Or perhaps more likely a pond, but a very charming pond which is always full of ducks and sea birds flown in from the coast- the latter part about the birds being the true part and entirely unimagined. Thin red trees and eternally green bushes hold up the sun when he starts his decline into the western sky and they are covered with vines that grow little yellow flowers. A charming picture if one had a device capable of capturing the view. Or time enough to relax on their patio. Which I do have today, as it is a Saturday.

My lips taste eternally of smoke. No particular substance, just an ashtray taste. This is certainly connected to the bronchitis that seems to have taken up residence in my chest and become like breathing. When I wake every breath that takes longer than a single second to complete sends me into a fit of eye popping coughs. The kind that proper folks scowl at in public arenas. This goes on until I consume around three mugs of coffee, a splash of milk 1/2 teaspoon sugar. The real natural stuff that sets me in a mood for sunny days, maybe having a slice of apple pie. Not that it takes much convincing.

Entirely outside of that fantasy, there are always little black ants in the sugar bowl. No matter where it's placed. Five or four busted unsuspectingly just beneath the surface. I say at least they're not red ants, the biting variety. Most people who encounter my sugar bowl on such intimate terms just say it's disgusting.

I decide to make full use of the sensational natural wonder that is my body and walk myself to a park. Quiet walk through a quiet suburban neighborhood. The occasional kid. The occasional old woman and her annoying terror of a pet. I imagine she would nonchalantly refer to it as a dog. I would say it's closer in breed and behavior to a possum and no my opinion could not be swayed. Not even by science. Facts, garble, I have intuition. (Now that's rather fanciful of me, all evidence leading steadfast in the other direction. The lost direction. The lack of.)

I roll a joint into tobacco papers. Twisting it into a pleasing shape is something I quite enjoy and take pains to complete. Like meditation. Between the first two fingers after the thumb I feel safe with it in a private public place. Like an unused soccer field. Like a cigarette. So I do, lying on my back. The grass is dry, so dry it would probably catch if I rubbed it the wrong way. But just as well for me that I don't get the grass stains which wet grass leaves. Collateral I'd be willing to take for the view of the quiet sky. But unnecessary and unmissed. I watch the clouds but can't pick out any shapes. My eyes can't imagine anything, mind sorely failing me today. Perhaps it is like any other mechanism, prone to falter.

An why not, our world is overwhelmed with new information. So the brain copes by creating shortcuts relying on experience to fill in the gaps. Say your experience led you drastically astray. Even skewed your personality.

I myself have become a dog trained by the constance of my own sick and destructive appetite. I wait for the little red light on the answering machine to blink, Pavlov's bell. In a moment of heightened anticipation, a ringing, new post, the world pulsates to some melancholy Lewis Taylor song growling about love. On second thought it might only be me who beats out the rhythm. I exhaust the joint and move on to a cigarette. I'm the worst sort of smoker. Addicted to the act of doing something in order to avoid the stillness, the emptiness the only meness that my life became at some point, or was always progressing towards. If you believe in destiny, which I don't. I think we're completely capable of ruining things that are meant to be.