Time Zone Time Travel
Nicotine is the only ingredient missing from the soup contained, and bubbling in the calcium and keratin-built crock pot that is heating up slowly but progressively and has been for the last 8 hrs./ 8 years. The contents are both melting and solidifying from the primordial frictionless ooze to diamonds made of compressed substances, heated by friction between tiny fractals, twisting, turning, eroding all of the things meant to be left behind.
We are proud walking contradictions made out of oil and water, deceit and truth, fear and courage. That is how you elevate yourself to the top of the food chain, stop fighting the predators around you, stop fighting the environmental factors out of all control, and fight yourself. The contradiction is that just under the skin there is a shiny bleached white brain bucket filled with thoughts so dark that Satan would squirm in his chair and reach for a puke bucket. The original yin and yang are our heads, feed them. The higher concentration of chaos internally will begin to collide off of each other at a high enough speed to raise the frequency and clanging machine noise to a high-pitched whine, much like that of a jet engine or turbo. That’s where the fun starts, once this wavelength is achieved, the intensity is such that it radiates out of the face, bounces off the rest of the world and reflects back like a radar unit. This is where the real hardcore cliché Buddhist ass shit comes in, your brain experiences the world based on how these vibrations reflect back at it, allowing your perspective to flip from grey scale to colorful intoxication.
Got “crazy” thoughts? Good you need those! Keep adding to them without any attempt to control the thoughts or act on them, just keep adding to the soup and stirring until the slag floats to the top of the molten pool, scrape it off, use it to light a cigarette, turn up the speed and volume, and watch your world transform into what you always knew it could be.
Alright let’s do personal story time, follow me back to 2012, trap music and drum and bass meant something different back then, 21 savages were about 10 years old and drones were only on COD. 19-year-old me is gearing up to visit a girl I’m crazy about who went to college in a different state. We’ll leave the school name out of it for the sake of anonymity, but the school colors are blonde and the only acceptable brown was blunt wraps and Ugg boots. I boarded a flight ready to enjoy a weekend getaway. Still having heavy feeling involved and an affinity for any party school I decided that Id drive her down there, a long journey indeed even with the weed, bumping bass, and cocaine (I didn’t share.) She slept most of the time, leaving me alone to consider if I had the tools to handle the heart strings still firmly imbedded in her sweaty little palms and juggling the memories of her visiting me and riding me like the four horsemen of the apocalypse while I told my “girlfriend” that she slept on a cot on the floor. Good and bad memories, that I would never take back, because emotionally compatible or not, the one thing we’ve always been good at is hurting each other and making each other cum buckets. Those are not skills that should be overlooked, if you can find someone who can make you cum while your crying, hold on to that person, because that’s the kind of maniacal shit that not only comes in handy but you will never forget.
Turns out I didn’t have the tools and she wouldn’t even let me hit it or snuggle the whole time. She was deep into the college phase of slipping and falling into the lap of the first guy who has a jeep or can play “wonder wall” on an acoustic guitar. I compensated as I was in the equally of stereotypical mind set of take no prisoners and stack up as many bodies as possible, I fucked her roommate while she was sleeping, and one of her “friends” in the bathroom of a party she took me to. In the same way that cause me to have a pocket full of blow, and a soul full of sire and 80 proof, these encounters with her acquaintances was an attempt to follow societal norms, mainly the 2 you learn when you’re in your teens.
1)if you love something let it go (check)
2) if you’re unable to let go, eat as many substances as you can and keep fucking everyone with a mischievous smile and inability to be alone until you can let go (checkcheckcheck)
These things were not working though, and I can remember the feeling of standing in the TSA line on the way back from the dirty, flirty, skirty south doing the rest of my shit out of a nasal spray bottle that I felt like I was falling, fast, I had gone cliff jumping three days before and felt as if Id never hit the water, I had been falling and didn’t want to stop. I wanted to get the fuck away from the mess I’d created as fast as this plane would allow me. Nothing would ever be the same again, we would both travel on different paths, I would continue to reach out over the years and she would show up, leaving every time seemingly more and more disappointed. I had grown up abroad and the exotic had already worn off, a process she had just started, I would wait, but not out of hope that one day it would work. I would wait, even though the “man” that she wanted me to be was a an eighteen year old boy whose been dead for longer than rock has, I would wait, because life is a fucking boomerang and I don’t want to get dusted by the remnants when it comes full circle. She’s still chasing a dream in a country that still values dreams, and I would never speak ill of that. But 8 years after the decision to jump off a cliff into a freezing cold quarry filled with lynching evidence and beer cans I had never stopped falling, and I’ve never wanted a parachute. Bullets are destined to travel until they lose all kinetic energy and spiral into fragments and deformed chunks of lead. I was just shot at a straight down style of trajectory.
I never stopped trying to drink and fuck the pain away and I never let go, just repeated the process (see aforementioned step 1+2), even the last time I saw her I knew it would be the last opportunity to every tear into each other’s physical plane, I wouldn’t because she “had a boyfriend” and I refuse to be blamed for wrecking her first artsy hipster relationship that would undoubtedly end soon anyway. Better luck next time or never.
“Hurtling downward for over a decade never hitting shit ““sort of good at scribbling shit”
Travis Muffhuggin Ryan