Strangeworld

"Sinead,"

My bare feet hit against the shiny rubber tiles of the longest hallway in Kelley's Island School as I try to catch up. At the end, Sinead is looking back and laughing at the sight of me with my soaking wet Converse and bug net in clutch.

"Hurry up! You're going to miss it," she ushers. Although it was just raining, a golden light floods through the open doors. When I reach the end, Sinead takes my hand and pulls me towards a white butterfly bush in a mess of overgrown native Ohioan plants. She hones in on a single bloom where a Monarch butterfly is airing its wings.

"That's the one we tagged yesterday. It's Queenie."

She was right, I recognized this one. When we caught her, the left hindwing was mostly missing, and the left forewing was ripped into a rough, unrecognizable shape. Her colors were muted, a sign of senescence in her species.

She grapples weakly to my fingers as I observe her now. She does not have long left.

During late July, the 3rd generation of Southwestern migrating Monarchs pass over the finger lakes. Many rejoice on Kelley's Island to feed, rest, and foster the next generation to continue the species' annual cycle across North America in autumn. However, death nears in early August for these 3rd generation individuals who, after mating, have nothing to do but await their timely passing. Many are too weak to leave the island.

The heavily damaged butterfly takes her final sips of nectar in front of us. She has travelled hundreds of miles and persisted through unthinkable conditions, only to be met with these listless final days. Her ripped wings are something that humans can understand as a symbol of the daunting journey her species endures, but to her, it means nothing. She must die without knowing her purpose, just as nature intended.

"It's kinda sad, isn't it? She's going to die soon."

"That's the circle of life, though."

"Yeah, I guess." I rest my net down. Sinead has a huge smile on her face, but I can't say the same anymore.

I struggle to assume the emotional implications of the Monarch butterfly. One day, perhaps even in my lifetime, the species will cease to exist. A butterfly knows nothing of fate. Not the one nature gifted it nor the one that man has imposed. And a butterfly knows nothing of death, logging, pollution, extinction... But in the evening light of some long forgotten August, Queenie's faded wings look newly emerged.

Recently I went to a local park to meet a friend. I arrived first. I don't like waiting, but I'm not impatient either, so I stood up and started walking around.

Sometimes I feel frustrated if I feel I can't have a good time when I'm alone. I always feel a need to prove to myself that I am a fun person. By doing so I have followed a typical idea of what "fun" would mean in the eyes of other people my age... Drugs? Trespassing? I don't really know, and so I aim in the dark at anything that is risky, daring, or edgy, always ending up frustrated and back at square one. It's an annoyance in my life that I don't seem to know what to do with myself when I'm completely alone besides be happy about it. That feeling can be lost quickly and as of lately, is scarce to come by.

But when I walked alone in the park the other day, I realized I was having fun. Not exciting, dangerous fun like the type I've been thriving off so much recently. It was that innocent fun that I forgot about- the kind I had when I was a child, where nature feels beautiful and real and alluring. Mother Nature is as fine in her details as she was back then, sketching such complex environments. Buildings and rooms will never capture the complexities of her pieces. Earth has unending intrigue, and I feel in love with it.

I have strayed from the enjoyment I get in nature by trying to prove myself. It's not that I haven't been appreciating nature, but why do I spend so much time trying to be cool and not staring into bodies of freshwater? There's arguably more stuff to keep me entertained in a literal flooded ditch than in the entirety of Caesar's Palace. I knew this, so how did I forget it? Maybe it's just one of those things you realize you miss when it's gone.

I want to spend more time outside. Maybe there's still a bit of transcendentalist in me or something. Regardless, the continual hedonism is not working. I could use for a hike or something.

Octopus was a very arrogant, self-absorbed, and poorly written entry.

I have gone back and read it multiple times since I wrote it. I do not think it is good, but I told myself I wouldn't delete it. Instead, I will elaborate now on the revelations I've had regarding that whole "immersion" thing.

I understand much better now that I am actively curious about how other people see this world, but I think my pretentious behaviors (and I'll call them that because that is what they are) are more respective to how I treat identity than any subconscious desire to "fit in" or "understand". I also don't think these behaviors are specific to me in any sense. I have only identified them, and that's why they hold weight in my life. Regardless, any comprehension I gain as a result of said (and I gloat) "strategies" is merely a byproduct of a basic human trait. Kinda funny how I put it on a pedestal. I am not special.

I just like to feel like I am a lot of people. My identity isn't as clear-cut as I had thought when I wrote that entry. Identity, on a conventional level, is something that I no longer care for. I believe most (if not all) human beings are too complex to be accurately and wholly defined, and that we are a horribly inconsistent species. I am no exception to that. If anything, I'm so fickle that it has become somewhat of a game. Becoming something new is like earning a Girl Scout patch. It takes time and effort. It enriches and excites me. I'm not suggesting that I'm quick to change paths, though. Rather, I am going down paths that change me and these tend to be my more long term pursuits. There is a rough "end goal" where I am heading, especially in terms of my ethics, personality, and art. This being said, to me, identity is more of an encompassing personal concept than an observable "persona" of sorts.

How this ties in socially is where the difference in my thinking compared to my previous entry becomes noticeable. I talk to many people. Obviously, I don't act the same around all of them. For the sake of organization I've applied descriptions to my relationships with these people although I often wander outside of them. For instance, I've labelled Corinne as my "party friend" and Corey as my "punk friend" but I've talked about both things with both people. It's merely the tendencies of my relationships that form these different categories. I'm sure both Corinne and Corey have very different impressions of me, but they are not oblivious to the other things I dabble in. In terms of other social settings, I'll immerse myself if I believe I will gain something from it. It is now a completely voluntary action. It's more like I am entering a passive, observant state than actually becoming a different person. I totally embellished it before.

Anyone can be a lot of things. I like to work specifically with that idea. I no longer think there is anything special about that. My understanding of other individuals is as vague as anyone else's understanding of me. I'm seriously chastising my previous way of thinking when it comes to this, but I'm proud of the progress I've made as well. There are so many things I want to experience and people I want to be. Some funny labels that I guess apply to me currently include aspiring punk, fairy enthusiast, psychonaut, drug mule, and internet troll. 

As for Nikki S. Lee, her quote sticks with me now more than ever. It's comforting. It's like a mantra to me.

“I am free. I can become anyone. Don’t ask me who I am.”

She is an inspiring person and I've really come to understand the sentiment of her work.

Nikki S. Lee - The Ohio Project

The fish
has no concept
of water.

The tree
can feel the breeze
but never name it.

I am standing
at the edge
desperate to touch it-

the answer
to purpose, to
meaning,

what I know is there
but still won't let me
hold it.

Early in my teen years I was under the impression that I would probably never feel a desire to try any type of drug for recreational use, be it alcohol, weed, or something else. However, the US education system does a rather piss poor job in their anti-drug education, and as I went through high school I found that this mindset just doesn't hold up. At least not for me, and for various reasons. By 16 I was curious (and cautious) about marijuana, which has now become a reliable substance for me that I can use safely and with great benefit to my mental health. Aside from weed (and occasionally alcohol) the only other drug on my bucket list at 16 was LSD, and that's where this story begins.

The draw of LSD to me comes from media I consume that is either inspired by it or is reminiscent of psychedelia in some sort of way, specifically music. I have traversed a multitude of genres but my favorites all fall under or are at least influenced by classic psychedelic rock/pop. I could get in depth with that, but it would take forever to explore the diversity of that umbrella. However, specific artists made me curious about the effects of hallucinogens on their creative processes, such as Mild High Club, Ween, and even Stone Temple Pilots. I was keen to listen to these artists "the way they are meant to be listened to". Combined with the fact that information on drugs like LSD is more accessible than ever, tripping acid could be made a viable goal. Research made me much more aware of what I would be getting into. It was a risk that needed to be researched, calculated, and executed in a particular way so as not to bring harm to myself. I genuinely did not think the opportunity would be as close as it was, though. My friend (who will remain anonymous) gave me the tabs two nights ago, and everything went downhill from there.

On the night of the 27th at 11:00, I took half a tab of LSD, about 50ug. For two hours it had little effect besides making it impossible to sleep. At around 1:30 AM, I started to get a bit restless and that's when I felt it. Suddenly, my body felt like nothing. My room was warping around me and everything was purple or green. I stood up and walked around a bit, touching different surfaces and trying to enjoy what I was feeling, but I can't say I did. Most of what I felt was indescribable. My mind was overclocking so much that I felt like I was leaving my body. It put me in a dreamlike state of confusion and disarray, as other stimulants do, and it felt burdensome. Moreover, my music sounded the same as if I were sober. But what bothered me the most about it was the taste. I could feel it in my mouth and nose- this metallic, horrible flavor. I wasn't distressed, but I wanted it to end. I was awake the whole night, slept for roughly an hour at around 7:00 AM, and was then woken by my mother at 8:00 AM because she needed me to help her move a couch.

This is where things got REALLY bad. The comedown from LSD was by far the worst part of the whole experience. When I stood up from my bed, I went blind for a solid minute and my brain felt like an absolute fuzz. My body was heavy and my pupils were so dilated that I had to wear glasses just to look outside. I felt like shit. At that point, it began to sink in that I would have to go out like this, which produced a feeling of anxiety so intense that I felt ready to spill everything and go to the hospital. Fortunately, I didn't. And somehow, in my magical ways, I managed to move two fucking couches in that state. But even when I got back, the thought of LSD and the night I just had was unapproachable. I was so anxious about it that I figured it would be awhile until I could talk or even write about it. I slept for 5 hours to clear the haziness out of my mind, just hoping it would all go back to normal. This morning it finally did and although the thought of what I've done is unnerving, I can write about it comfortably. Still, I don't want to talk about what I experienced with anyone. Thinking about it makes me unsettled. I think I might be a bit traumatized by it, honestly. But I'm still glad it happened because everything kinda worked out and now I will never have to do LSD again.

So yeah, that's what LSD is like. When you have an experience like that with a more serious substance, you really start to appreciate the subtly of weed. In fact, I think I'm turned off from trying anything new, at least for the time being. I'm alright remaining a stoner and I'm sure as hell giving the rest of my tabs back to my friend. This is what it means to be scared straight. The school system should be taking notes.

Anyways, as promised, I will describe the other antics of my week. It wasn't as eventful as I initially thought. I got this really good bagel while back at my apartment in Stockton, did some more swimming at that lake, danced around my kitchen a little bit, the works. One of my favorite bands, Seether, released a new album so that's cool. And some kids made fun of me outside a convenience store today which was kind of funny. Life is good, the same old really. I'm fine with that for now.

I've been doing a great deal of reflection lately while keeping in mind my affirmations. I think I've been doing a pretty good job of branching out and exposing myself to new situations that are important to my growth. In fact, since prom, the ball has really started rolling. In the last two months I've been all over the place and going along with all the ups and downs. I'm living well at the moment.

As for an explanation of the title, I think it's important to clarify that there are two stories to be told here, both occurring on the same day (June 17th). The first being my aunt's funeral, and secondly the graduation party of my dear friend Corinne.

My aunt passed away from the coronavirus back in December on Christmas Eve. I was not that close with her, in all honesty, but I've never experienced a human loss before in my life so I guess the idea of it was intimidating. The funeral was held at a cemetery in Montclair on the humid morning of the 17th, and my entire family attended as well as the side of my aunt's family that I have never met before. I think it's important to note that my perspective on death is not that profound or oversaturated. I can't sympathize for dead people and all emotions that I feel in the wake of death are only pertinent to myself. Of course I am deeply affected by the death of loved ones, but I don't feel bad for a person's death in any sort of empathic way. Thus, at the memorial service for my aunt, I struggled to create any strong emotions out of the fact that she was dead. The pain only started to set in when I found myself in a room with 40 or so devastated people crying their eyes out. I was trapped in the presence of very real, perceivable hardship and it was cast over me like a wave as soon as my relatives spoke. I only found myself in tears after my cousin of 11 years, Mackenzie, went up to the mic to express her grief in the most heart-wrenching way possible. She was brave to be up there, but she looked deeply hurt. I've never seen a young child look the way she did as she cried. I remained like a statue as tears ran down my face for the remainder of the service, and I realized that this is why people cry at funerals. It's not just because of death- it's because seeing the people you love in states of great pain is as hollowing as death itself. I walked away from this experience puzzled by my own affliction, but have since come to terms with it. My sadness is for all who loved and were loved by my aunt. A great humility fell over me that morning...

...A humility that was quickly shed as I arrived to Corinne's house in a skimpy ass outfit for the most banger party of my life. And I use that word, "banger", sparingly. Corinne and I went to school together but the cliquey atmosphere there never really allowed me to become close friends with her. Now that high school is over, everyone has kind of gotten over themselves, including myself. After prom, I reconnected with a few people from my school who were outside of my usual social circles (including Corinne) and began actively hanging out with them. It's interesting, because many of these people are so out there compared to myself. They had completely different experiences than me. Corinne in particular is a party person, and I was really excited to attend a party in the company of a person I trust. Her party was held in her backyard, and for the first few hours of the night, her family was there. At around 8:00, her family left and we spent the rest of the night drinking, smoking, and chilling in a huge tent in her yard.

What they don't tell you in movies about average cool teenagers is that they are surprisingly supportive and mindful people. They are not sociopathic, manipulative assholes who bully disabled children, despite what the media may tell you. Every fear I had about "fitting in" with Corinne's crowd quickly diminished as she and her friends told me how excited they were for my first party. Strangely enough, Corinne's best friend, Sami, was there and we absolutely hit it off. Prior to that night, I only had one interaction with Sami in my sophomore year which ended poorly and we both thought we hated each other or something. Turns out we actually get along really well and have quite a few things in common. We talked all about high school and our lives and everything, and it was refreshing. We then got high in the upstairs bathroom, which was hilarious within itself. I also got to talk to members of Corinne's family and see a different side of her life. I found that first part of the night really enjoyable. After the sun went down, the rest of Corinne's friends arrived and suddenly we had free reign over the backyard. It was a small group, only about 8 people, but a party nonetheless. I was familiar with everyone there and didn't really have to cling to anyone like I anticipated. Sami also seemed to be checking in on me which I really appreciated. The dynamic was unlike anything I was used to, but something I could get comfortable with quickly. The events of the night took their course, with Sami, Alec, and I departing to McDonald's in the pouring rain, and then to a sketchy area behind Quick Chek where I hit my first bong. All I can really say about "losing my bong virginity" as Sami put it is that it was the highest I've ever been in my life. Once we were back at Corinne's, we drank some Bud Lights and I forget the rest. I woke up in her basement the next day feeling very satisfied and hungover. It was fucking amazing.

Corinne's party was important to me because it was a clear opportunity for me to break down some of the social standards I had for myself throughout high school. I think I took a lot of tropes about high school at face value when I was younger. I know I was kind of a weird person at school, but sometimes I wonder if my marginalization in academic settings was purely imaginary. It doesn't really matter now, since I have one of these classic alcohol-infused parties under my belt now. Things are going to change soon, and I need to be ready. In two months I'll be in college and distant from people like Corinne and Sami, but that doesn't make their company any less valuable to me. In fact, they will probably never see the full extent to which they've helped me. These things are so confusing and deeply rooted that it makes saying thank you even more difficult than saying goodbye.

So yeah, June 17th was interesting. A lot to process, that's for sure. I never know how to end these long anecdotes about things happening in my life. I'm looking forward to the future and all the changes it will bring. I'm looking forward to writing about it, too. Like I said, I'm living well that the moment.

Simple as that.

Mom,

I'm writing to tell you that I have picked up on things now. I’ve become wiser. Maybe that’s why you sounded afraid when I told you I saw it in me some months back.

“I’m not interesting enough to spend time with. But I’m interesting enough to pay the tuition. I’m just a fucking checkbook.”

Yes, you are, and I want nothing to do with you beyond what you provide me financially. You seem to have forgotten the years of intimidation and harassment you’ve inflicted, or maybe you just don’t realize that I hate you. Since I was a young kid I’ve never seen you succeed at understanding me, but I'm just too kind aren't I? Too forgiving? Too good of a kid to question authority?

At 13 you threatened me out of anger for my poor grades and behavior. You made me stay silent at family gatherings. You ignored my obvious issues with anxiety and self harm because you thought I was looking for attention. At 14 you berated me and put me on medication, and then at 15 you didn’t believe me when I told you I had a dependency issue. Yet you would use the drugs as a way to control me. At 16 you told me I’d look disgusting at prom and graduation. You rolled your eyes in frustration when I came out because that was a burden to you. At 17 you refused me gender reaffirming care and threw fits about pronouns and my new name. All throughout my childhood you convinced me, whether your realize it or not, that I would never be anything more than a disappointment to you.

Now I’m 18 and you tell me I don’t appreciate you enough and that I’m selfish. You think my friends are weird and that I have too much metal hanging off my face. Well, you know what I think? I think you should look in the mirror. Every year I see the wrinkles on your face become more prominent and watch the gray hairs replace the brown. And now, when I look at your bitter, exhausted expression I feel an emotion I can only assume is hatred for the years I spent trying to tear away from you. Even if you try your best, even if your intentions are good, at this age I feel like you have failed me. I am not bound to you. You tell me you want your daughter back. Well, I’m not your perfect little girl anymore. And truth be told, I never was.

Here's to less letters in the future.

Sincerely,
Ricky

I don't like feeling like I'm slipping away. My self-assessment has been poor lately, and I think it's because I've been high every night for the past two weeks. So, with the suggestion of cannabis comes the tale of the person who exposed me to it, a friend of mine I've been wanting to talk about here for awhile: Will. Buckle up, this one's a slow burner.

Will and I went to high school together and became close friends in our junior year. He was a semi-popular person in school because 1. he is gay beyond belief and 2. he is so tall that it's kind of hard to miss. That's a very shallow deduction of his character, though. What I see in Will is a gentle, kind, introspective, beautiful person. It only took hanging out with him once for me to realize that he is profoundly intelligent and emotional. It's hard to explain. I guess a good way to put it is that Will and I are very similar people intellectually, and naturally we became very close because of our demeanors. In fact, I can't say I've related to anyone more than I have to him. He was the only one who could hold a conversation with me about a variety of subjects, from our mutual love for nature to our mental health. We both knew exactly why we were friends. We never argued or assessed our relationship verbally because we didn't have to. When you get along so well with someone like that it feels like fate. It's a wonderful feeling. Will is not "like a brother" to me, he is my brother.

All last summer, Will and I hung out and traversed all planes of reality, from the great natural expanses set before us to the inner workings of our psyches. We hiked and took drives often, among other things like hanging around by his lake and with his equally chill brothers. In school, we were inseparable and we never stopped laughing. He introduced me to weed and in the latter half of summer, we got high together a handful of times which made us much closer. The amount of individual experiences I can recall with him are so many that I feel it would be useless to mention them in detail here (I've done that before... see "Ramblings of Maine"). In any case, around him I always felt loved and cared for. I hope he felt the same. Will and I were just strange people, and we were strange together. He taught me how to be truly happy with being myself, and I'll never not be grateful for that.

In the prime of our friendship, I realized that Will is (somehow) a more sensitive person than I am. Or rather, he can't handle the weight of the world as well as I can, which is sad because I do a pretty bad job. His empathy runs so deep that he is affected by almost everything around him, good or bad. Yet, despite his overwhelming purity and acuteness, Will was persistently plagued by trauma, mental illness, and horrible coping mechanisms. I guess it's true; we used to say he's like a frog, the way he is so vulnerable to the outside world. I tread lightly around his health because I knew that he had fears that he didn't want to confront with me. Everyone has boundaries, and it just wasn't my place to pressure him down a path he wasn't ready for. I don't blame myself, but I wonder now if I should've done something about it. Come winter 2020, Will and I were hardly speaking. I found out rather late that he had been admitted to three different psych wards over the course of a single month. I still have no idea why, nor do I want to hear from anyone other than himself. Currently, he is in a residential hospital and according to the one text I have from him, he seems to be doing better.

The whole psych ward revelation was genuinely scarring for me, even though many of my close friends have been to one before. But this was different. Will and I were always good at being emotional together, but what about apart? Suddenly I found myself deeply depressed by his absence, mourning his situation and hoping that his recovery would be safe and fulfilling. He is still away all these months later, and I think about him almost every day. He missed prom, which is still so painful considering we had excitedly outlined our plans for it together. Likewise, driving through his town is absolutely gutting and I cry if I think about him a little too hard. Everywhere I go, memories of last summer fill my mind, but amidst the gloom I find myself smiling fondly at the good times. The rainy days we spent outside, the hot chocolate simmering on his gas stove, all of it. It's bittersweet. I miss him more than I can put into words, but I am so relieved he is getting the care he needs. In the end, I know that what is happening now is for the better even if it hurts.

I think the reason Will's case is so important to me is because he was one of the only people who experienced the world around him the same way I did. We both felt so much and understood so little. I've never met another person like that and doubt I ever will. Despite our emotional dispositions, our friendship was never exhausting or fragile like so many turn out to be. I have a history of being in less than redeeming relationships, so attaining a friend like Will reshaped my understanding of a healthy one. Looking back, all I see is a strong, pure, mutual trust between us. Search as I might, I can't conjure a single moment of hurting or anything of the sort in the span of our friendship. Around Will, I simply was. And thanks to Will, I simply am. His return, whenever it may be, will definitely bring out some intense emotions.

This one's for you, Will. I miss you, man.

Will's Playlist

"Did we fall out a bit?" he asked suddenly. And oh, I knew the answer to that one.

"...Yeah." A moment of silence followed, but I still had an obligation to speak. "Do we need to talk about it?"

"Well we have to talk about it at some point."

I knew he was right. But I was unprepared. The nature of our conversations had been mournful lately, and I wasted all my time lamenting about the past instead of thinking of how to go forward. He seemed so hard to read lately though, and I knew that no move would be safe. I was walking on eggshells out of necessity until he could prove to me that things could be different. I didn't want to lose him. But a statement had to be made, and a frank one at that.

"I'm still confused about it. All I know is that it makes me sad", I jested uneasily, but it was true. And somehow, despite my anticipation of a long-winded discussion about our friendship, his response was surprisingly easy.

"Do you want to go back to being best friends or whatever?"

You didn't have to ask me twice.

"Yes," I laughed with relief.

I love staring at ants for prolonged periods of time. I know this sounds almost humorously stupid but it's something I have done my entire life. Every spring when the weather warms up, there are ants near this one small area in my kitchen, and I just sit down and watch them a couple times a week. I think it's so interesting how ants work and communicate. I like watching them tap their antennas when they bump into each other and slowly explore the expanse of my tiled floor. They are complex animals that work in such a unique and organized fashion, and it makes them incredibly efficient. Unlike humans, ants always have their shit together.

Admittedly, the ants in my kitchen live a spoiled life. I know I shouldn't, but sometimes I deliberately put crumbs on the ground near their home just so I can watch them slowly dissect it all bit by bit. It captures my attention so easily, even as an adult. Millions of years of evolution occurred for me to witness that natural process. Ants are the hallmark of biotic life, the way they function in their colonies and endure the trials of nature. How lucky am I to be able to appreciate that? No ant farm or sea monkey aquarium could ever equate to the ants in my kitchen. They are, in essence, the lifeblood of my pitifully sparse attention. I could never hurt one. I am very careful about where I step in my kitchen from March to October when they are conducting their ant business. I wish I could be an ant for a day instead of the looming creature that stares down at them. I genuinely wonder what that would be like.

This entry is painfully innocent. I don't really care. I just really like ants. I think they are kind of underappreciated.

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.