Sapp brothers... I havent smoked weed for awhile, I almost forgot what it was like. The Paranoia always kicks in full gear. But I deal. Its like this giant invisible spotlight on your innerslef. I'm the type who prefers to hide in the shadows.
Opinions, thoughts... the paranoia focuses itself on. Rejection.
I'm listening to the girls tell stories to one another as smoke from a half-smoked cigarette hits my nose
My menu lay unopened, pinned beneath the hand I write with.
A small handfull of truckers talk about... whatever it is they talk about, and soft pop seeps silently through the anonymous speakers.
I cant order any food. I'm too fucking high to even understand the menu.
Conversation briefly twists to a topic that just slides into my obscurity and I remember replying, &#quot;I just gave up.&#quot;
Silence pauses time as eyes wonder from face to face
What causes these moments?
Are they so universal?
Whats
In gritty cafe fashion, witty sarcasm quotes the wall.
An american flag locked in a case adorns one wall, glass, surrounds us to keep the smoke in.
There was an ad outside the premises talkin about a dentist being available. A dentist. At a cafe... gas station, truck-stop.
High tech durable lighters flick around the table.
Do lighters show a facet of our fragmented personas?
laughter...
healing various ailments, tension usually.
Whats really happening, when people gather.
Do we really see each other, or only notice when we catch our reflection in the broken mirror.
So my head becomes thick with the ambrosia and the words of our stories, and as I return to writing, the music unfilters through my ears again.
These glasses are fucking huge. Probably so the waitress doesnt have to refill.
So whats with those guys anyway? The ones where all the females turn and look.
So then she says in an excited voice, &#quot;Hi sweetie!&#quot;, the excitement escapes me. Along, with my understanding.
The accoustics here are great. You can hear any conversation perfectly.
Voices, wander to my table as they meander, from the kitchen.
Bits and pieces, collecting in my memory. I'll record it for later.
But when I put them all together again am I going to recognize myself?
I didnt get hungry until the food arrived.
And now some guy is calling the waitress by name from the kitchen as if he were in pain.
I want something simple, and the biscuits and gravy look ok.
Eat.
As I watch and listen to myself, I become self-concious. Self awareness always makes me nervous.
What are they thinking?
How does this look from another perception.
And I only have one other window to look in through.
Its always painted with sarcasm, and ... .. whatever that other word was.
So I'm reminded that I'm going to be an uncle.
What a trip
What pressure
Is it the pressure that causes our mirror to break?
In my rare moments of lucidity, I show myu nakedness, my vulnerabilities, and the have never been rejected.
Why should I feel so repressed.