Strangeworld

It occurred to me that I haven't talked about prom weekend here yet. I've been hesitant since I didn't really have the grandest of times. It wasn't even particularly bad, just uncomfortable. I'm a little sad I wasn't able to have the experience I wanted, but I should've expected it since I know Amanda isn't fun to travel with. We got uneasily crossfaded in a shitty motel together, and then she basically ignored me for the rest of the trip. I felt estranged for most of it, it was weird. But I did make good memories unrelated to Amanda, and I think they are worth talking about.

When we visited the boardwalk the night we went down to Seaside Heights, I had a highly specific goal. For years I've wanted one of those airbrush shirts, the kind they make right in front of you at those crowded, neon Jersey shore merchandise shops. I'm enchanted by the culture of these places- the shelves lined with overdone shot glasses, sweatshirts with the worst graphics imaginable, clear counters filled with cheap jewelry, it all interests me for some reason. And of course, given the location, I succeeded at finding the most jaded of artists for my prophetic request at one of these stores- an older man named Ron. Ron wore a rainbow galaxy shirt and a tropical blue fedora, and was charmed by my enthusiasm towards both his character and my shirt-to-be. Our spirits rejoiced over my vision, which Ron wrote down using this comically large pen that really drove the whole thing home. We chatted for a little while and he said that "since I was cool" he'd add some clouds and sparkles in addition to the gaudy pink heart with my name in it that I had asked for. When I came to pick up the final product, I reassured Ron that he had made my childhood dreams come true and we took a picture together because yes, he was just that chill. When I asked him about his job on the boardwalk, this is (roughly) what he had to say:

"I love my job, man. I can see the beach and I can be stoned. It's legal now, you know. And I get to make people happy, so that's good for me." - Ron

What a guy.

The same night, after we had returned to the motel and gotten mildly stoned, I was sent out to get water for Amanda and I. I'm not very functional while high, so I was fortunate enough to have booked a motel right across the street from a classic coastal corner store. The nighttime was already in full swing when I arrived, and I was the only one there. I love experiencing places in this way. The fridges hummed around me almost enough to drown out the tail end of Yellow Ledbetter, which played quietly from a speaker behind the counter. When I went to pay, a woman of 40 or so approached the desk and I mentioned the music. We talked about our mutual respect for Eddie Vedder and also Chris Cornell, and it was fucking rad. She high fived me before I left and I was overjoyed by such a simple interaction. I thrive off of stuff like that. Just the day to day experiences I have with strangers that allow me to feel at peace with humanity. It makes me excessively happy to be mindful of it.

This is why these things deserve to be written down. I want to remember them years from now and have them to look back on when I feel discouraged and upset. I love to daydream about the people I meet and wonder what their lives are like and what things they've seen. I'm also glad I'm able to bring simple moments of joy to other people as well. I hope I am able to do that my entire life.

Sidenote: This journal is now bona fide. It contains over 13700 words, excluding writing that is not my own. I wonder how far I'll get.

In the wake of these unfortunate events I am gracious for this journal. Having an outlet to reflect is helpful, even if I only have myself for reference. I remember during early high school I kept a physical journal as well, a crude and beat up book inscribed with various grim details that have still never left my mouth. It has since been buried away in my closet, and I visit it on occasion as a way of comparison when it comes to this type of "habitual" writing. There is more permanency in preserving a physical object, but I prefer the obsessive refinement of my entries.

Like back then, I am finding solace in myself. Last night I stubbornly settled down with the idea that I may have been stuck in my hubris a little too long. The entries of yesterday, in which I seethed with rage for my circumstance, lack any and all wisdom or insight. I think it is necessary that I know my place; I understand very little in the scheme of things. I'm not as intelligent as I think I am and I should definitely be a little more humble. There are people who are 10000x smarter than me- the self-sustaining academic types who become easily and infinitely immersed in their own research. I am not like that, and I will never be. I wish it were easier for me to just be content with that, but I have it dangled in front of me all the time. I don't want to be taunted by my shortcomings anymore. And I want someone in my life who is okay with that.

I think now to the tribulations of my friends that have (with no fault of their own) made me this way. I feel a hollowing disenchantment about Jatin, who has not cut me off but tarnished my trust with the devastating idea of it. That's one way to make me feel worthless I guess. I am stuck in the shock of almost losing him that it has actually become debilitating. I also feel inertly stupid talking to him right now. I can feel his frustration towards me and I fear I might fail if I ask anything of him. So there's that, and then there's the argument I am having with Amanda, who is demanding I open up to her about my mental state. She does not understand that she *cannot* understand most of what she wants to hear, and that if I disclose anything to her it would be a wasted confession. I told her I wouldn't tell her because I am not comfortable with it. Still, she is disdainfully pouting about my personal business as if she has a right to know, and as much as I can sympathize with her concern, her behavior is obnoxious. I think I'm actually in the right for this one, but it's stressful to think that we are on weird terms because of this. I can't just choose to respond neutrally to these situations. Both my heart and mind are telling me that I should be upset, and so I am. But there is tweaking to be done in my approach. Should I be more direct? More demanding? More patient? I don't really know, and so now there is growing to be done. Growth that leeches off the distress I feel and the distress that may be yet to come if things go poorly.

Desire be, desire go. I'm no longer manic to the extent of having my mind turned to Jello, thankfully. I can be a little wiser about everything now I think. Writing about it is a great grounding technique, even if the emotional toll doesn't necessarily subside. This place brings me comfort. After all, the one person I know who will never abandon me is myself. I'm okay being my own best friend if I have to.

So here I am, fucking miserable.

I might need help if I think I'll hurt myself badly. I tried to mediate the self harm by driving to Brooklyn and back which I guess was a temporary fix, but I basically just sat with my thoughts the entire time and I think that made it worse. My mom is complaining that she hasn't seen me for a couple days and that I've been dismissing her. Maybe because I'm obviously completely unstable and deranged. Or because she terrified me the other day by spouting nonsense about my hypothetical rape and subsequent murder, which I dreamed about vividly last night. I can't cleanse my mind of it at all, amongst all the other stuff. Rape, death, misery, horror, crying, repeat. No one to talk to about it, nothing to distract me. As expected, a myriad of bruises have appeared on my legs and the sides of my body. It hurts like a bitch but at least I don't cut. And I was able to force myself to eat this morning, but I clocked in at 99.0 lbs yesterday so things will probably get worse before they get better.

This is what it feels like to lose control. It hasn't happened to me in awhile, honestly. I know from experience it won't last forever, but that doesn't make it any less painful. Episodes like this don't come out of nowhere, they are triggered by external factors such as overstimulation, interpersonal issues, or medication side effects (at least in my case). It takes a lot of time for me to heal and get back to normal. New surroundings, new friends, new drugs. The longest I will have to wait for things to change is July when I move into my apartment in Galloway. But for the time being, I need to focus on avoiding self harm and psychosis.

I'll let myself be incessantly stoned for the next couple weeks if that's what it takes. This is what comes before healing. I'll be okay.

I wake up after a long night
And the foreboding sets in
Past its time, I suppose
But alive in its consequences.
My body is spent
And my mouth tastes strange
Of something alkaline, almost
Metallic, unhinged.
What chemical has been poured upon me?
What insects crawl upon my skin?
Even the spiders in my room
Have brought their thin legs within
To their fragile bodies.
Shame, I denounce it
Things have gone wrong.
If I am in limbo
The day will be short
And the night will be long.

When I was younger, probably around middle school, I was not yet capable of critical thinking at my current level. I guess I didn't understand it back then, but I have always had the desire to befriend people who don't like me or people I don't like. My inability to rationalize that properly at the time resulted in a primitive analogy that I've now dubbed "The White Box". The idea goes like this: When I see someone who I don't understand or who wouldn't normally give me the time of day, I ask myself what would happen if we were stuck in a seamless white room with nothing in it for a week. The only option would be to talk, and with that much time to waste, we'd be forced to get to know each other, right? When I was young I was certain (and still am) that any two people stuck in the White Box would leave with a deep and mutual understanding of each other. Now I see this crude mindset for what it really is- a test of my patience and ability to empathize. Even back then, I was looking to comprehend the mentalities of all types of people through serious one-on-one conversations, something I now fully understand and search for in my everyday life. The White Box analogy has evolved into me creating opportunities for deep discussion with people who don't demand that type of attention. Once I picked up on this connection, I see that I've unintentionally created white boxes everywhere. My world is filled with white boxes. To elaborate, I will list them here:

A List of White Boxes:

- The three rocks at NJ Botanical Gardens
- My fishing spot
- Adam's White Lexus
- The tube at the Holy Spirit Catholic School playground
- The Trader Joe's Breakroom
- Any private chatlog basically
- Gardener's Cottage in Bar Harbor, Maine

This analogy is not only applicable virtually everywhere, but an easy way to introduce a deep conversation with someone. By discussing the white box, you inadvertently create one. I'm a big fan of this concept. I even explained it to Adam and we joke at work now about wanting to "white box" people. Eighth grade me was really onto something there.

Today I had a few of what seems to be my final formative experiences. It's weird to think that these type of memories can never be made again due to my mental and emotional obligations at this age. I feel like today was the beginning of the last chapter of my childhood, and so I am trying to enjoy it as much as I possibly can, almost desperately.

We had a small party today for the side of my family that I don't get to see as often, which includes my two aunts and uncle, grandparents, and my two cousins. Maggie is my youngest cousin at the moment, and she is 4. I have a lot of little cousins, but I am not great with young children and have felt quite negative about them up until very recently. Today I made an effort to get to know Maggie because she is probably the last cousin I will get, and she does pique my curiosity despite being so young and oblivious. I want to put effort into being a part of her life because I have never navigated any relationship with a young child. There is so much to learn from them.

Maggie likes to draw with chalk and play with water guns. She also likes playing my keyboard and looking at everything on my bookshelf. She didn't want to leave my room because it is "so pink" and she enjoyed being in it. She is an energetic and happy kid, which I gathered from her general excitement about everything. I found it endearing. Children have a type of easily obtainable admiration founded on their curiosity, and I think that's where familial love begins to blossom. Little kids come to love you very quickly. This was my first time actively creating memories with Maggie and getting to know her as a kid, so I was surprised when she held hands with me to show me something or hugged my leg just because she felt like it.

Maggie, like all young kids, is tremendously impressionable. It feels like an honor to pass down undoubted moral knowledge to a child who requires such lessons in their early years. Today Maggie was afraid of the carpenter ants in my driveway, so I picked one up and explained that they are living creatures that pose no threat to us. She watched the ant crawl on my leg intensively for a few moments with an expression so innocent and full of wonder that I could actually see the gears turning as she assumed a new opinion of ants. It was fantastic. It makes me feel very old in comparison, despite still having these sort of bright-eyed epiphanies once in awhile in my own life. But nothing beats the whimsical worldview of a child, and to see it vicariously is completely different. This is something I can now deduce for certain thanks to my little cousin. I really am thankful for the time I was able to spend with Maggie today. With the end of my childhood comes the beginning of hers. It really is an amazing thing to watch.

>If things are to continue the way they are, this can no longer be my alter ego. I must become a person that does not exist.

Yesterday I took an impromptu road trip with Adam to Philadelphia. Adam is my coworker. He is 24, but honestly a very similar person to me. We hit it off immediately and once in awhile we will hang out because we are much too preoccupied to talk philosophy at work. I almost feel like a student in his presence, although our exchanges are pretty equal. It's hard for people like us to find each other. He agrees.

Adam was deliberate with this two hour ride to the city. Halfway through discussing the fleeting nature of the human body relative to the mind, he said something along the lines of "this is why I brought you". It feels good to feel appreciated like this. I'm glad other people value this type of banter as much as I do, especially since our road trip conversation made me rethink what I said previously on ego death.

I'm not sure ego death is the key to "enlightenment" anymore. Adam says that enlightenment is *probably* an unachievable thing, which when I think about it, I don't disagree. Previously, I expected that getting over my ego would help me reach my end goal, but I realize that while I want to ascend the trivial nature of humans, I still need to be human. In fact, it's the focus on trivial things that lets me appreciate all of life's details, and I don't want to thwart that fascination because it is not only innate, but important to my personal development. Having an ego is different than having a personality. I don't need to be a saint to get where I am going, and I don't need to punish my nature to live an intelligent life. My focus has now changed to slowly controlling or removing traits that interrupt my intellectual pursuit instead of aiming for perfection. I should learn to love my personality as I love others', because in the end I am no different from them. Like them, I am human.

A secondary narrative plays indefinitely in my mind 24/7, which I didn't really notice until yesterday. The influence that little voice has over my temperament is much more effective when executed in reality. I think a good example of this is the fact that I rarely feel impatient anymore. Yesterday I observed this while waiting for Adam outside of a gas station in a Philly neighborhood, sipping birch beer and feeling no obligation towards time. I was more than content absorbing my surroundings, and continued to do so as we walked through subways, stations, side streets, and even the overwhelming center of the city. It's a pleasant balance of thinking and feeling, nothing more nothing less. This is a trait I see in Adam, too. I learned something important from him yesterday. I'm really grateful for that.

On a lighter note, our night in the city was fantastic. We had some amazing Mexican food at Los Caballitos Cantina, a restaurant that was bustling with punk-clad servers and happy hour patrons. I was able to eat comfortably in public for the first time in years. As for everything else, Adam is generally a exuberant guy to be around, whether we are invested in a deep conversation or racing each other down a flight of stairs. I think we both had a great time.

It's only 9:00. Tonight is going to be perfect, even though all I've got is some apricot and blackberry liquor that smells (and tastes) like acetone. Alcohol is glorified in all aspects of media. Either that, or I am just so pathetically bad at drinking hard liquor that I place that embarrassment elsewhere. Regardless, tonight will be fun.

I hit some guy's car in a parking lot today, which sounds like it would be bad news, but it was actually a very funny experience to me. I can't tell if it was his fault or mine, but I walked over to him after scraping the back of his little blue Volkswagen and began apologizing profusely, like I usually do when this happens. But instead of paying me any mind, this guy just kept putting his arms out defeatedly, mumbling in frustration, and wiping the scratch for a solid minute before- I shit you not- getting back into his car and just driving off. Without saying a single word to me. So I began to laugh at the pure absurdity of this real life Grand Theft Auto NPC, and turning around I noticed the lovely new battle scar on Breakfast (my car). Another strange memory put into permanency. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Still, I hope I didn't ruin that dude's day. I would love to sit down and have coffee with him sometime. He just looked like he listens to Weezer.

Looking into my daughter’s eyes I read
Beneath the innocence of morning flesh
Concealed, hintings of death she does not heed.
Coldest of winds have blown this hair, and mesh
Of seaweed snarled these miniatures of hands;
The night’s slow poison, tolerant and bland,
Has moved her blood. Parched years that I have seen
That may be hers appear: foul, lingering
Death in certain war, the slim legs green.
Or, fed on hate, she relishes the sting
Of others’ agony; perhaps the cruel
Bride of a syphilitic or a fool.
These speculations sour in the sun.
I have no daughter. I desire none.

(Essay for a composition class. I can't write like this in my freetime.)

Metaphor is a powerful tool for writers to give dimension to writing that goes far beyond their literal assets, and is especially helpful for conveying messages that may be considered off-putting, intangible, or taboo. Thematically, a lot can be done by projecting distress and misery onto characters, an idea that Gothic and science fiction wholeheartedly embraced in the early 20th century. Some of the best short stories of the time period work exclusively within the mental parameters of characters, for example, Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis and H. P. Lovecaft’s The Outsider. By using eccentric symbols and grotesque imagery, these pieces explore the themes of trauma, mental illness, and alienation in disturbing yet distinctive manners.

The manipulation of mental states in literature is a common theme in modern times, but was relatively new to writers in the early 1900s. This type of writing did not have an official genre, nor did it strive to live up to a previous example of its type. This makes Metamorphosis in particular an archetypal instance of what is now referred to as “psychological horror,” or literature that seeks to disturb readers by focusing on the psychology of characters. Since Metamorphosis was published in 1915, it predates most works of its kind. This, combined with its modern relevance and popularity in academic settings, allows Kafka’s story to hold up as a worthy example. However, this does not make Metamorphosis the poster child for the genre. In fact, Kafka’s approach is actually quite straightforward as he ascribes the mental state of the main character, Gregor, by literally transforming him into an insect. The result of this “transformation” can be seen both figuratively and literally as Gregor struggles physically with his new body. Many events of the novel have a clearly established metaphorical meaning meant to emphasize some type of mental illness, beginning in the first few pages. For instance, Gregor’s initial attempts to get out of bed are dragged out to become a difficult, laborious task in his new form. As the text states, “He would have needed arms and legs to lift himself up; instead he had only these numerous little legs that never stopped moving and over which he had no control at all” (Kafka 240). Although not explicit with its metaphor, this scene bears striking similarities to a common effect of depression- struggling to get out of bed. Gregor lacks the humanness to complete basic human tasks and whether that is due to lack of motivation or him actually turning into a huge beetle is left for the reader to decide. This is the first instance of the text alluding vaguely to depression, and scenes that highlight other symptoms of mental disorders are recurring throughout the piece, effectively building a story where the reader can not discern whether it should be taken literally or not. As Yeon-Soo Kim explains in his review of the story, “Kafka's narrative sensibilities are not built on the assumption that there is a shared frame of thought that enables the symbolism within the text, or a shared belief that this symbolism can be understood by all. For Kafka, the only shared element is language” (Kim 3). Basically, Kafka’s metaphor eludes the reader because it is not intended to be definitive. Regardless, Kafka’s Metamorphosis still provides a primitive example of psychological horror that seeks to repulse and traverses the reality of Gregor’s dejection in a disturbing and physically cognizant manner.

This being said, although Metamorphosis possesses many themes of psychological horror, its peculiar use of metaphor means it is a basket case in terms of genre. Clear examples of this genre have a more obvious focus on the emotional states of their characters, such as The Outsider by H.P. Lovecraft. Similarly to Kafka’s piece, The Outsider navigates the anguish of its character (who in this case is the narrator) both physically and psychologically. However, Lovecraft’s approach is distinctly self-aware and does not beat around the bush in terms of metaphor. As a matter of fact, the character’s trauma is addressed in the first sentence: “Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness” (Lovecraft 287). This line introduces the writing style that Lovecraft pursues for the rest of the piece, focusing mainly on the aloneness of the main character and how it ultimately brings him great psychological pain. Alienation from other people is a key theme in the story as the character lives in a completely isolated and nightmarish castle, void of sunlight and any human contact. This eerie setting is thoroughly elaborated on and acts as a projection of the narrator’s emotional state, but unlike Metamorphosis, seems to only accompany the psychological themes of the story and have the narrator confront his horrors by giving him an ambition- to see light. This idea is established when the narrator avers, “I neither knew nor cared whether my experience [in the castle] was insanity, dreaming, or magic; but I was determined to gaze on brilliance and gaiety at any cost” (290). The progression of the setting as the narrator searches for light works directly with his internal revelations, eventually leading to the peak of the story and a swift ending; the character realizes that he has become a hideous beast as a result of ruminating about his trauma in isolation. In this short story, there is merit in having the setting change with the mentality of the narrator. These types of representation were not uncommon for Lovecraft, who even stated, “Inconceivable events and conditions have a special handicap to overcome, and this can be accomplished only through the maintenance of a careful realism in every phase of the story except that touching on the one given marvel” (Kneale and Lovecraft 275). Lovecraft is aware of what he is trying to express in his writing, but explores it through a surreal lense that allows his work to be shallowly defined as science fiction. Moreover, his themes of psychological horror are not only illustrated through the internal dialogue of the character, but expressed through his elaborate imagery which balances the story rather well.

Though both pieces carry ideas of psychological horror, Kafka and Lovecraft’s stories (and writings in general) clash significantly to create two separate styles notable enough to warrant their own descriptive terms, “Kafkaesque” and “Lovecraftian.” Respectively, these terms refer to the distinct qualities of both authors’ writing: Kafka’s nightmarish and dreamlike illustrations versus Lovecraft’s use of setting to invite madness. Kafka’s work in particular receives a great deal of attention for its vague and unnerving symbolism, in which Christiane von Buelow’s review of his work explains, “the symbolic correspondences to which truth refers [in Kafka’s writing] have been lost” (Von Buelow 119). The symbolism in Kafka’s work is not obvious, which incites a profound sense of confusion and fright within the reader. In Metamorphosis, the vagueness of Gregor’s transformation is the catalyst of these feelings and would not succeed without it. Lovecraft on the other hand relies on the intertwinement of setting and character psychology to inflict a meticulous, disturbing set of emotions. For instance, as James Anderson elaborates in his review of Lovecraft’s work, “The connotative code schematizes the dominant connotations of the text's language in regard to character and setting. This code often develops characters in traditional stories, and, in Lovecraft's work contributes greatly to the overall mood of terror that the author tried to produce” (Anderson 11). Lovecraft seeks to bind the internal aspects of his writing with the external, fully fleshing out his horror elements in both areas. As observed in The Outsider, the emotional distress of the narrator is further emphasized by interactions within the setting. Where Kafka is not inspiring terror, Lovecraft is (and vice versa). Yet, despite these disparities in writing style, both Metamorphosis and The Outsider share a commonality beyond the position of their characters in that they rely primarily on surreal occurrences in places of realism to impart their vision of horror. This is an unusual tactic for works of Gothic fiction, but makes sense in the context of science fiction or psychological horror. As explained in The Gothic Origins of Science Fiction by Patrick Brantlinger, “Although some authors have produced stories in one genre or the other that are fully realistic in the second sense-works of great esthetic power and profound meaning- most stories in both genres necessarily fail to be realistic in either sense” (Brantlinger 31). Gothic fiction’s tendency to estrange itself from realism is exactly what makes these two stories unique- they navigate some sort of unphysical, psychologically-based plot using tangible settings and objects.

Both Kafka’s Metamorphosis and Lovecraft’s The Outsider are strange examples of Gothic fiction that go beyond their usual boundaries by way of a distinguished use of metaphor. Although the works share more differences than similarities, they are understandably alike in that they use the projection of horror onto their characters as a vehicle for their themes. These stories provide an understanding of mental disorders that cannot be captured otherwise, exceed the visions of thematically similar works, and ultimately make for two remarkable works of fiction that have rightfully earned their literary significance. For these reasons, they will undoubtedly remain iconic for as long as horror maintains its draw.


Works Cited
Anderson, James A. Out of the Shadows: A Structuralist Approach to Understanding the Fiction of H. P. Lovecraft. Open Access Dissertations , 1992, digitalcommons.uri.edu/oa_diss/696.
Brantlinger, Patrick. The Gothic Origins of Science Fiction, Duke University Press, 1980, www.jstor.org/stable/1345322.
“Index to The Lovecraft Annual 1–10.” Lovecraft Annual, no. 10, 2016, pp. 229–239. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/26868525. Accessed 27 Apr. 2021.
Kafka, Franz. “Metamorphosis.” Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, 16 Aug. 2005, www.gutenberg.org/files/5200/5200-h/5200-h.htm.
Kim, Yeon-Soo. “Reading Reality into the Fantasy of Kafka's Metamorphosis.” Gale Academic Onefile, Feb. 2016, skynet.ccm.edu:2131/10.1353/trh.2016.0008.
Lovecraft, H.P. “The Outsider.” "The Outsider" by H. P. Lovecraft, 20 Aug. 2009, www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/o.aspx.
von Buelow, Christiane. Troping toward Truth: Recontextualizing the Metaphors of ... New German Critique, 1989, www.jstor.org/stable/488235.

"Are you even listening?" she asked, finally done with her tangent.

He stared down at a rock that he was kicking haphazardly between his feet. He remained silent, scraping the stone against the asphalt. Cars whizzed by on the freeway as they stood, rocking the Toyota, whose hazards blinked menacingly behind her. The orange light dimly lit his expressionless face.

"I don't even know why I brought you with me, honestly. I don't know what I fucking expected. You pull this shit all the time. You never change. I'm sick of it."

He ignored her again, this time turning slightly to the right, pressing his foot down on the rock. White marks began to form around the edges and on the pavement, and he continued to press down harder, until he could feel it through the sole of his shoe. For all he cared, she could stand in front of him forever. He knew he could remain this way indefinitely if it meant winning, whatever winning was.

"You know what? Fine. I'm done. I'm fucking done."

She walked off to the car, and started the engine. The radio was immediately silenced, and she idled for some thirty seconds before finally driving off.

The rock was becoming dull at the edges. After a few more minutes of pressure beneath his heels, it cracked into a few slaty, gray pieces. He kneeled down and stared at it for a few moments before looking at the long, straight road ahead of him. And then, after making no serious observations, he began walking.

This week has been very disappointing so far. It is my "spring break" I guess you could say, but there isn't all that much for me to do. I don't have many friends who I can see in person, and even if I did I doubt there is anything worthwhile to do. Recently, I have fallen into a sort of slump, an obvious depressive episode with no real cause or pattern. I woke up today feeling pathetic and have just returned from doing nothing for a painfully slow hour, scrutinizing each of the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. I feel a bit miserable from it, but I am still inclined to write.

My therapist used to tell me to remember my "happiest memories" when I felt this way. Usually during times like this, I think about my experiences in Seattle or something similar; things I can remember vividly and contrast from the weird static that many of my memories become after a week. But today I pulled something out of the mess, a specific night on the last day of August that somehow doesn't feel tarnished yet.

I was with one of my closest friends, Will. We had just driven 8 hours to Maine where we were sharing a rental house with my parents for a week or so. The trip was a testament to the type of trust my parents had in me at the time, but that was all very elaborately staged. So much so that Will and I had stopped in Portland for about an hour on our way up with the intention to acquire cheap THC carts, something my parents think I am totally unconcerned with. Really, I had mastered the art of finding dealers online just a few weeks prior to this event and became rather good at it. But I digress.

My parents had gone out for the night and left Will and I at the house to enjoy the late summer weather, and we did so while cautiously stoned. The house was secluded in a tapering forest of Acadia pines, with a tall wooden fence blocking in a large section of mossy earth which my dog paced aloofly while we remained inside. Will and I had opened all the doors and windows on the first floor and then locked ourselves in the twin bedroom where I had become quite nervous about traces. We used a pen so that nothing would smell afterwards, but being two mentally ill teenagers, we feverishly searched for a way to get the steam out of the room as discreetly as possible. The AC unit on the window satisfied, and so we took turns blowing thick clouds into whatever apparatus was sucking the air out. When all was said and done, the tension subsided and nighttime had just begun to fall. Will told me to follow him downstairs, and we remained outside for some 30 minutes, running around and gathering stones, pinecones, and other miscellaneous items that caught our eye. I remember standing out there and thinking that it felt surreal, telling myself to just hold on to it because things would change come September. And of course they did, and I guess this moment also disappeared with the late sunsets and warm breezes.

Eventually, the last daylight of August fell away and we had not even noticed. We were laughing infinitely out there in our pajamas and barefoot, completely unconcerned with the world around us. That is, until I heard the distant crunch of gravel beneath car tires which sent me into panicked frenzy. I took Will by the wrist and we ran awkwardly into our room, locked the door, and pretended to sleep in just a matter of moments. My parents had not even pulled in, but we remained there for a few minutes in fear. I don't remember much after that. Looking back at some of the photos I took, the time was only about 8 p.m.. It's a silly memory really, and probably a pretty boring anecdote. But it seemed to appear out of thin air today, so I decided I would place it here where it can't be forgotten again.

The weather has become more tolerable this week. I have been home alone for the last four days and I've wasted most of the time embarking on useless journeys just to be in it. The evening before last, I drove up the highway during a very pale but remarkable sunset that reminded me of a night I had in Ventura some years back. It was the kind of faded, cloudless sunset where each color was easily distinguishable from the rest, stacked on top of each other like a poorly blended pastel piece. Staring into it seemed infinite, even here in Jersey where the hills have always struck me as misplaced and suffocating. Out west the mountains hover distantly over the highways like gods. I wish I were in Los Angeles again.

I spent a single night there alone after a camping trip in 2018. The area around Ventura is gorgeous, but nothing beats the grandeur of LA. The highways flood into the city like arteries, pumping frivolous life into the atriums of a monstrous being that I, unfortunately, was only able to witness from twenty stories above in a hotel room. From so high up, I pretended I was in a movie and watched over the glowing conurbation. Still, I miss the exaggerated, pantomime thrill of driving in it and I'd like to go back as soon as this whole mess is over.

The more time I spend inside, the more I realize how completely pathetic it all is. Late at night I lay next to my fish tank and stare for hours. I wait until the first glimpses of light subtly define the branches of the trees outside my window, and then watch as the moon falls grandly back into the horizon. I know that soon the sun will peak over in a smoldering red and shine her disdainful light through my curtains. These things no longer fill me with awe. As the day begins, I remind myself of what once was whimsical, and it dawns on me again that nothing is poetic anymore. Not me or the trees, or even the moon in all her majesty, and all that remains are scattered thoughts that fail to come to fruition. My mind is a relentless static, a dimension of words without places. On mornings like these I wallow in the knowledge that I can no longer capture beauty like I once did.