I found something today. · 12:42am Jan 17th, 2015
Floor.
What are you? Why are you there? I can't seem to keep you clean. What is it about you that eludes me? Leaves me cursing in the night when the only things I step on are empty whiskey bottles or beer cans, and not the narrow pathway I've made for you. Why can't there be more of you? I've tried to clean, but it seems to always end in failure. Is it because I do not vacuum you enough? Once a year isn't that bad... or is it? True it's been eight years since I changed my vacuum bag, but so what? When you're covered with things, you can't get dirty, right?
So why do I miss you so?
How long as it been since I was able to just lay on you, my face burning from the uncomfortable scratching of carpet? How long as it been since you've actually been seen by eyes other than my own? What is it you want? I have begun to clean my life. I've learned the hard way. I can't keep everything.
Look at you! The areas where boxes and milk crates sat for years, were you have not been touched by anything for so long. Garbage bags full go flying out my window, crashing into the yard. I look at you. You can't look back. These things I'm letting go... why does it hurt so much floor?
I remember them. I remember when I got each and every thing. A garage sale. From a friend. From the trash even. Most of it is just junk, right? So why does it tear me up inside? Why am I not donating some of this stuff?
BECAUSE IT IS AN EXCUSE TO KEEP IT LONGER.
You're right. It's always been about excuses. I have things I can never let go. Will never let go. But there's the stuff that I need to let go.
It is sad that I have only one small window in my room, floor. You only get a small bit of the morning sun. I can actually see the dust and dead skin drifting in the air, settling on you and getting you dirty. Or is that what you want?
To be used. Occupied not by a stationary object, but by things that move around. Activity. Foot steps. You are a space in a room, waiting for something to happen. I think I'll put a new bag in my vacuum and give you a good once over. Maybe if I do it more, things won't pile up.
Floor... am I too far gone? I'm cleaning, fighting myself, my beliefs, my habits and weakness for you. It's hard. I'm struggling to just let go. If I drink, it gets easier. But isn't that just another excuse? Another weakness? I don't know. I probably don't want to know, the truth will probably make me drink more.
You're changing, floor. I don't like change. I never have. But, some change can be good, right? Giving you more room to breath, to be seen, to be used for more than just a holding place. Maybe my friends won't be so disgusted in seeing the lack of you, or the abundance of mess.
All these things, these trinkets of my past. How can I just let them go? It's hard, floor. Just like you. I want to say that maybe, just maybe, I will succeed in keeping you clean. But I know the truth, and so do you. Forgive me, floor, although we both know you cannot. I cannot.
...
I think I'm losing my ever-loving-fucking-mind.
Join the club.
Sounds like you and floor need to get reacquainted over (under?) a bottle of whiskey.
2727492
Our jackets are being made.
2727500 Huzzah!
STORY OF MY LIFE
Don't worry, Mr. Cakeran; there are times that I fear that I'm going sane...
At least you actually have a ROOM. You know what my bedroom was supposed to be originally? A gun room. A simple gun room that seems to have its own environment once the doors closed.
You lucky bastard...
I wonder what my floor is thinking right now underneath all of my dirtiness . . .
What is this "floor" you speak of?
It seems you have lost it already, pretty far back I would say...
Fucking beautiful and deep even though it is only describing the lack of will to keep the floor clean.
Could have been: "My floor is dirty and my inner demons won't let me keep it clean. My friends don't like it, but I can't change who I am and so it will stay dirty."
When you can sound deep when describing this and are able to bring forth such melancholy, then you truly are a genius at the quill my dear Rob.
All my kudos to you.
Dragon san
I wish I could fave and upvote blog posts.
The sign of an artist in writing is when you can experience a spiritual journey when reading something that, at face value only proves how fucking balls to the wall batshit insane the writer is.
And did you really have a hoarding problem, or did I just confess to having a "the answer is forty two" moment in the comment section of something you did for shits and giggles? (Oddly well written shits and giggles by the way)