Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
[chiraag n. Hindi for lamp, or source of light.]
Light’s on, but no one’s home. Blame it on my mind’s timers like in Home Alone. Forever defending that which will never change, I’m afraid I’ve become content with my contempt of people, places, and most things that aren’t at the level that I want to or wish to be. My problem lies in my inability to read signs, despite everything around me flashing neon, and everyone around me egging on about the possibilities of finally grasping happiness, and casting off this shell of hermit living. Standing on the boardwalk outside of Pleasure Island, my friends were convinced I had a shot with the girl selling pizza because she kept staring and smiling. I went back to her to exchange a burnt pepperoni slice, and she talked about staying late for the fireworks, but I said I couldn’t because I’d miss the last bus back to our resort. My friends chided me, and said I should’ve lived a little, but we had an early flight, and where would this really go? She was from Orlando, and I’d be back in the MtL. I don’t believe these things because I don’t want to. I don’t believe in these things because I know better not to. Don’t you know the worst thing you can do to me is to place an idea in my head that isn’t true? I don’t need that Inception. I’m my own Cobb, Mal, and Fischer.
Do not go where the path may lead;
go instead where there is no path, and leave a trail.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
[exodus n. a mass departure, or an instance of going out.]
Five years ago around this time I was waking up in Florida, sitting in my hotel room watching a bootleg print of Transformers 2. MJ had died a few days prior, and I had no idea that soon it would be me that was afraid of the man in my own mirror. The smell of suntan lotion still reminds of me those summer days, of a time where I didn’t seem to always be on work’s display. That fall, getting back into school was a nicely balanced break, where I was the new kid, but that didn’t seem to last long after my first year. I had to reestablish my old tropes, and we became television. I was at CBS acting like an NBC half hour. In the first season, we hadn’t all met, and the second season’s where we all meshed. The third is where it got dark, and most of four I’m sure we’d all rather forget. The fifth was this weird limbo space, where nothing new was created and/or made, yet some would say it was a return to form, and we hope to be back online for six, but two thousand and fifteen is still far away. It’s the return of my heroes, and a cast that will always be ingrained in everything that I do or say. I’ve got tunnel syndrome, or should that be vision? I always want to seek the end of it, waiting for Doc to throw down the colored flags, but I can’t seem to find him.