Padd Solutions

You bring around a fragrance of a smiling fall.
If the taste wasn't so bitter, I'd lower my guard.
Makes me hesitant. But fall is so beautiful, and I'm done watching residual happiness.
Maybe it's the soft look at a safe distance. Maybe it's the trail of uninterrupted hands. I don't know if I'll understand, but it most certainly pins me against the wall. Renders me shapeless.

The dim magenta lights uncovered thoughts. It painted all of our faces, shedding off the darkness, peeling it back. Some came and went, but we sat at the table finishing our drinks. Well, at least I was finishing my drink. She sat across from me. At times, friends occupied the vacant chairs beside us. We flipped through conversation topics like a photobook, selecting carefully our thoughts, soaking in the imagery. Then the chairs emptied again, she didn't budge. At this point it began to be a problem. I grew anxious. I wouldn't be able to escape this without a few blows to the chest. Her hands grazed mine, she held them for a while, asked about my bit fingernails. I smiled, told her I have anxiety problems. She showed me hers, she had the same problem. Blow #1. She smiled. We sat quietly. I didn't say a thing. I didn't have to. I would've stuttered if I did anyway. She called out an awkward silence. "I'm completely full of those," I told her. "I haven't felt awkward at all," she replied half-smilingly. Blow #2. I don't know if it was a peak of intentions that peaked through the veils of her eyes, or if it was the thunderous amount of alcohol I had consumed earlier, but she was trying to tell me something with that stare. Maybe I'm over-analyzing and it didn't mean a thing. Maybe I was hopeful. She dissected my brain with that stare. Her eyes wouldn't give in. It was like playing chicken with a beautiful Mack truck, the one you'd hope would crash into you. I shied my stare away. Looked at the black tabletop. Drew the graffitied names with my finger and my cup. I glanced again, and there it was; the beautiful Mack truck staring back, asking for another round of chicken. Blow #3 and we called it a night. We all left with our partied faces. Some with stories, telephone numbers and even some blow. I left with a sour feeling much like the sour mix I was drinking, a confused head and an intolerable sense of autophobia.

Things you say, and the things you do sometimes make me believe that you need some type of reassurance that you are a woman. You dictate the things that most certainly describe you as one...over...and over...and over. You need to listen to yourself to inflate your ego. How silly of me to think we could remain good friends. So beautiful, but you still have a lot to learn. Pitiful...that you keep remembering what was wrong, trying to figure it out. It was pretty clear in the end. All I remember now are the good times. In 2 years and spare change, I think we amounted to a whole bunch of those. Just pick one to remember, instead of blowing old steam in second person informal pronouns. Then again, whatever. In the end you'll do what you want. You'll eventually mature. Until then, we'll just read our sporadic messages directed to each other. Have a good life.

He doodled carelessly whatever came to mind.
The paper was too obviously saturated with triangles
dots, waves, squares, instead of what he would regularly jot down.

"Explore the complications of the Earth, but do
not dwell in the hallways of particles and waves."

You could see his tongue motioning the T's and L's and his lips folding to
form the V's and P's and F's, all in silence. Every word bounced inside the walls of his head, he could not follow. He struggled concentrating on the meaning of all this. He wrote it down next to his doodles. There was a disconnection between mind/body/brain. Our friend had been feeling this way for days. The doodles were a mere representation of the static in his head. It's not that his mind was blank. It was just too much. To catch a single thought was a feat. He would have to be quick, open his hand and snatch one. Everytime he tried, his grasp was too hard. The thought would fragment.
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Her lips tactically moved, dressed in red, swift, precise. They called him to their trickery and mischief. But like everything drenched in brightness; "Oh Peligro!"
He calmed his soul looking to escape from whatever chained his eyes, to the pictures in his brain. Gestalt missed sexual attraction in his theory. He would have to snap his neck off to unchain. Her eyes motioned him to pour more. It seemed like the better idea, to soften the brick wall. After all, it was what stood between them. It never did soften, it never could anyway. He just beat his head against it and stared from the windows of his eyes. The conversation could go on all night long. He didn't mind feeling like he did. Ateast he felt something, and had someone beautiful to look at while feeling miserable. He gulped his glass of wine, knowing the harm he was doing to his liver. He smiled. It softened the harsh saw of thoughts and worries. Bottom line: He wanted her breath on his skin, but he couldn't have it. All the more reason to want something. Unattainability builds up expectations, false hopes,
alternate worlds. He lived in this alternate world for a little while. He smiled.

"What are you smiling about?"
He felt like a child, caught awake on a school night.

"Just something I remembered. I'll tell you later, go on."

"I think you also know Veronica and Jay, " she said, lacking curiosity.

"I know Jay," he said unenthused.

"They asked me and my boyfriend to appear in their music video they're shooting for..." she continued.

The words just reverberated into background noise. Our friend, Samuel, Sammy, Sandman, the day dreamer, felt his body sink into the chair. He felt the wine working its magic in his cerebral cortex, his libmic system (especially), and his hypothalamus. He welcomed it. In fact, he needed it. It would surpress the pain from beating his head with the brick wall between their souls.
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A good enough 50 degrees farenheit outside, slight fog, white atmosphere, birds chirping, some dogs barking far away, they all painted a quaint suburban picture. Chilly. Early. The suave chill crept up Sam's bedsheets. It wrapped his legs and caressed his cheeks. He opened one eye. He delicately grasped a thought with his hand. It didn't shatter. "I have to wake up" With one eye opened, face down swiming in his black and red sheet/comforter combo, Sam flipped over. He rubbed his face, feeling his soft smidgen of facial hair. He sat right up on his bed, cracked open the curtains a little bit. He always liked his room so dark. It helped him sleep. Thoughts don't linger as much in the dark. He stood up, peaking through the curtain. White sun dressed his bare chest, and static his brain. He could only remember short scenes from the previous night. He remembered the terra-cotta colored patio, the christmas lights that surrounded the low walls, the metal chairs. He could remember seeing some of the brighter stars. The wine. Red. Smiles.

Untangling the cables on the top of his head on one specific morning, just after brushing his teeth, and after getting out of bed, but necessarily before having his first bite of toast, our main friend described only in type had felt his soul gain a few hundred pounds. It was this sort of heaviness that made him breathe hard, and speak with the same amount of words as dollar bills he had in his wallet. Just so you know, he had only a few. With his clean teeth, and combed hair, he was presentable for his toast. It was the only thing he could get inside his stomach. Light and tasteless. The cables he tried to untangle that morning, weren't only the threads of hair attached to his scalp. His life also ran tangled throughout his head. He didn't have the same luck he did with his hair. Hair untangles far too easily in comparison. He tried not to think. Chew, swallow, drink, and repeat where the only commands that passed unfiltered through his body.

Almost as comatose as him, was his pet dog. Crazy little fella. He only had tangled hair. His life seemed quite easy. He woke up and protected his master faithfully, from the comfort of his makeshift dog-bed. Both of them were clueless as to how the world would end. Only one of them was clueless of how the day would end( hint: it's not the dog).

The day ends with three words, three syllables, two pronouns and a verb. Funnily enough, it used to begin with the same structure.

A universe dies collapsing on itself, while another one is recreated in misery. A little more on that later. We'll just follow out friend to work for a little while.

His soul felt heavy, but his body felt as light as a feather. His car seemed to speed up faster just because of this new super-power of lightness. He drowned what would become thoughts in an instant of chemical materialization with music. He would lyrically speak his mind through the words of other poets. His ideas, in that half hour trip, were those of his gurus. He abandoned all original thought.


Modern technology made the destruction and creation of the universe possible. His cellphone vibrated on top of the passenger seat. It was an armed high-power explosive device. In it you could find the equivalent nuclear weapon yield of something that could blow souls to other parts of the universe. The bullshit music that blasted through the speakers didn't just drown his thoughts.

Our friend, an average 5'10.5" had average intelligence quotient, average dick size, although scruffy looking, also had an average haircut. He always thought he was meant for something big, but he was just average all over. He was just another building block that provided a service to all the other average building blocks. He knew none to little that he would have a great responsibility bestowed upon him as soon as he noticed the flashing screen of his cellphone. Half-way done through "I'm Blue" by The Shangri-La's, his apathy turns to sadness. The toast made it's way easily to his intestine, leaving his stomach completely empty. His body, almost expressionless is feeling the pressure his soul is exerting on it. It wants to give up. The cellphone caught his glance. The red LED did what every woman with a red dress ever did to other men who trusted them; lure them in and leave their meat to the wolves. Dillinger had experienced this fate already when Anna Sage ratted him out to the cops. Just like John Dillinger, our friend fell in the snare. It was a message. The kind like this one you are reading. In type, in English, and exactly 3 words. It set off the infinite megaton power it held. It dismantled every single molecule in ground zero, creating a chain reaction of chaos. His soul was blasted elsewhere, the thread that hung it to its corresponding body snapped. Momentum. He was lo longer alive.

I had posted here more or less around this same date last year.
Today it doesn't seem any different.
Every September when it rains it pours.
It's usually very little tiny drops, but they come in millions bashing off the concrete and making small dents and cracks. Then the sun rises up high, and all you see is the vapor leaving the cracks. Nonetheless, it still cracked the concrete.

I was walking down a big city, wandering. I had been at a party. I was just standing by, no contact with anyone. The room is candlelit. A fight erupts and in my mind I think I hear gunshots and exit the bar. I lose consciousness until the next day. A painting at the entrance of the locale, when seen from sky view, depicts a murder. Skulls swallowing a body in an array of brilliant colors, pulling her down a hole.

At this point, I know what I have to do: I have to find the body. The police start a search, but I don't care. I want to know what happened by myself. It's cold outside and I don't have a jacket. There's snow. Loads. Police are looking in trash bags, sewers, empty buildings. I start running. I'm getting anxious. I feel I am being directed to where the body is. At this point, I don't want to just find the body, I want to know who did it. I run up the wet, cold streets warming up my hands. I know. I know where she is. I go running down to the pond by an old abandoned playground. It's all slush and grass. I have to me carefull not to fall in. I see bags hanging from a tree. I know its her. I don't want to peek in. Someone is watching me. I feel a stare coming from behind. I was being followed. It was a mexican woman. All the information sort of rushes through my brain. I had seen her at the bar. It was her, she's talking on the phone calling for someone up, and I see up in the distance a car coming up. I run. I run up atop the highest mountains. I skip and jump away, there is almost no ground at the top of these mountains. They are really thin and narrow. I fall and trot down scared running as fast as I can. I can see the university. The car appeared. The man inside draws a gun. He starts shooting like a maniac, he's not even pointing properly. I am scared. I find myself trapped inside high wire fences. He jumps in, and starts firing away emptying his bullets. I think that I am dead. He runs out of bullets, I go for his gun. I wake up.

Sometmes the words get filtered through the nodes, just like sand through endless hair. There is never a reason to fret, but I insist. Serenity sings like a mythical creature in these bothered states maybe because it lies across the sea. Certainty means you crash in the deepest oceans, called in by the sirens. The strings resonate throughout the ether and they remind you how you are more than flesh, it would take so much more to drown your thoughts. Of course...don't panic.


-- Post From My iPhone