My labtop is semi-working. How I have to charge it, is another story, and really why bore you with my love of duck tape and a well placed bobby pin.
It smells like feet, but in a good way, like I don't mind smelling the smell of when you take off your sneaker, and than your sock, and your left with this smell, not bad, but not good, just weird, and the fact that you kinda find the smell interesting leaves you wondering if your sane, just like the smell of gasoline, quite intriguing.
I'm sitting here with my i-pod, the princess is her name. She used to be a 20gb, she now has 3 gb left. I'm telling you, I was one of those people who really needed an i-pod.
These days seem to be flying by, not even at a time where I can grasp hold of what happened, it just seems to float by. Minutes turning into hours, into days, into weeks, into months, into years... into the moment I'm laying on my death bed, finally being able to define love and all of it's substance.
Moments. That sense of abandoness, where your sensory guard is at full hault, and your overcome with a need to do it. Although when you look back at whatever you "felt" you needed to do, your left with a gap, this wide hole somewhere in your mind with no answers, just questions. In my case, I'm always left with questions, never wanting to know the answer. Floating on I tell ya... floating on.
Unstability. Uninsured. Uninterested. Following dissatisfaction.
I smoke weed to let these thoughts flow. Let all of it just fly out. Before all the thoughts leave me to die. Because my thoughts can kill. Fly or Die.
I woke up this morning, high from last night. Happy to see my mom's face. Happy to see her laugh at herself. Happy to see her, happy to know she's here with me. "Ericka your apt. smells like weed and incense". I laughed, because really, why should it smell like anything else.
Smell. Smell ties you back to a certain something. I would say the french saying for a certain something, but I don't type french, and if I did, it would be as bad as my spanish. Why bore you with my antics of trying?
Downy Fabric Softener reminds me of wild sex and the Hernandez brothers. Curve for men reminds me of my first Dominican, and the heartache he caused in my young impressionable teenage years. And how now, the smell of weed, reminds me of a time in my life, where everything around, even my thoughts began to formed into concrete things, rather than drying concrete, and that would be a point in my life where someone would come to the concrete, take a stick and write their name in it and whatever year it happens to be.
The analogy of my mind being concrete was quite a good one and I hope some of you caught on to how someone can leave "marks" in your mind. Eh, I'm explaining my writing.
Spectacular is right in front of you.