Like all the time.
Life keeps beating with a pulse that never seems to end. Match after match. Town after town. Title after title. Motel room after hotel room. Where is the joy? Is it all a journey of repetitiveness? One fucking day after another feeling nothing but the heat of summer, and the cold death of winter? I’m at the end of my career, my identity, my purpose. A few more years at the most and I’ll hang it up, or myself. Was it worth it? Only God knows, and we haven’t exactly been on speaking terms of late.
PJ Blake is a child. A fresh face in a world of ancient history.
She’s nothing more, nothing less just like the rest of us. She’s still pulsing with the energy of youth ready to take on the world. She knows it all, while knowing nothing of substance either illegal, illicit, or otherwise. She’s ready to take me on. Why? What’s the fucking point. Another match, another two points, a few more fans. Laughs are fleeing, while pain is constant. My back aches. My elbow throbs. My soul has surrendered. You know, I don’t find this stuff amazing anymore.
A bottle of pain pills in front of me and I’ve already taken enough to kill an average man. I’m not average, nor am I a man. I deity perhaps, or a slight of hand whom nobody ever really understood. The cat looks me in the eye, and he knows I’m high, and I am considering heading toward the bright light of tranquility just as soon as I can get my legs out from under me.
The Japanese word for sky is the same as emptiness. The sky is empty, and only true enlightenment is ever met in absolute darkness, without a single thought in your mind. Buddhists seek this moment for an eternity starving on a mountain alone. Meditation is key so that the conscience is perfectly empty. Just peace. Just a moment where life fades to black, and all is realized yet nothing is achieved.
My arms are heavy, and I feel my eyes rolling backwards; where are they going? Should I follow? The OxyContin takes my breath away like a kiss from a first love yet the after affects are the same as bad breath on the approach. I follow my eyes deep into my head floating on a cloud of soft perfect white marshmallows. I grab a bite of one, but it has too much sugar, and I vomit sweetly until I drown in a puddle of my own pity.
There she is before me PJ Blake and yet I watch as my own image exits from here’s like Casper the friendly ghost’s grumpy older brother Cletus the cranky ghoul.
But what does it mean?
I reach to touch her but she’s as real as I am. An image. A fragile image. Created in the likeness of parents who have been here before use. Recycled, repetitive, like a fucking clock. A circle. Numbers to measure and plot our own demise. Round and round and round and round we go when we die only God knows.
I look at the time on the wall, it’s half past four, but as expected in these kinds of things the clock melts as does my heart. Maybe I love PJ Blake? Maybe I want her and it’s all some sick lust. Maybe she wants me. Naw, wrong kind of dream/trip/vison/spiritual awaking. It’s all PG these days. Society in general is bubble wrapped with great care not to hurt our fragile collective existance.
To scared to offend so we all sit on our hands and try not to take up too much space. I feel my body expand and it’s uncomfortable as I’m surrounded by thousands of marshmallows headed human like figures. Everybody watches as I stand out in a crowd of cowards so soft, so white, so sweet. All eyeballs are on me as I’m floating above them almost with a sense of serenity. Before I can relax to much I watch as their eye start floating out of the socket’s rising following behind me with strings attached like balloons. They follow me to the sky above…to the emptiness.
Where am I? A little blue bird tweets a distracting song so out of human curiosity I follow it through a forest burning, white hot heat, fleeing animals, dying spiders, the trees die and its hard to breath. I follow the blue bird as a generation follows me, just as the disciples followed Jesus. Apparently wherever I am now your status is attached to how many followers you have. I can’t count. No time. The clock already melted anyway.
I think I’m in the amazon based on the smell of capitalism surrounding me. One amazon grows and offers free shipping while the other amazon burns. Burns bright. Burns, smoke billows, did I mention it’s getting harder to breath still. I check my pulse but I’m to numb to feel. I’m I dying? Are we all dying? IS humanity as fucked as the broken souls we watch deranged on the free porn we consume going on two generations drunk behind the wheel of a broken-down American dream on the side of the information superhighway?
I take advantage of the free distribution offered by a little glowing box and jump into a brown box escaping through the mail. In the box with me is a bottle of El Yucateco hot sauce. I drink it, and gain heat like Mario eating a mushroom or Popeye eating spinach. I’m a wrestler and heat is important even if we seldom cook with it, or take comfort in its warmth. Somebody, an influencer doing a live unboxing for their flock of sheep stands a gasp as I emerge from their box. Like a child, like PJ Blake. I guess we all come from a box at some point or another.
I watch as a child stares at a cereal box focused on a dinosaur that’s the prize buried deep inside. The child is me. My mother is present but not there. She’s now dead. Now forever gone with not a single hug left to give, she won’t let me reach into the box to free the prize. My hands are dirty she claims. I’m angry at her. Was it justified?
Such as this vision, it is so pure. Parents, family, shelter, food, prizes in boxes are all still a mystery yet all are still present in a child’s eye. As we age, we know the dinosaur prize is just a cheap piece of plastic that will only entertain us for mere moments before being forgotten. 20 years since my mother’s death and she is never forgotten. The anger is still there. Is it justified? I watch as her coffin is lowered slowly into the ground with the ultimate prize still left in the box, and there’s nothing I can do about it now.
The funeral director hands me back my eulogy marked up with corrections and edits. I don’t spell right, and my grammar is broken. A lowly beatnik hitchhiker from the highway behind the cemetery gives me a thumbs up and yells, “break’em all they mean nothing, and nothing is enlightenment. Break them with a beat, a rap, a beat, a rhythm, a beat, a pitter-patter of vivid unhinged vibrance, like the dance of a young brown skinned Mexican seniority in a dress of blue, green, red, and white spinning with a smile as long as the Rio Bravo del Norte gentrified to simply the Rio Grande, a smile that can’t be forgotten nor should. A beat from the mariachi band that plays to a generation spinning, spinning, but not out of control like mine, but rather to control. A march of a circular style. Spin is the saint of modern diplomacy orangish brown speckled with black flakes like the hot sauce you just consumed. Don’t let them put you in a box, make them remember the Journey is why they come back.”
The travler got into a car an old-time car that speeds away with the license plate that simply reads, “Kerouac”. I’m to emotional to respond. I never was one to learn structure as structure is to a limit. Like a box and fitting in it isn’t my prerogative. Like a cheap piece of plastic of a long dead creature trapped inside a box hoping and wishing that some child’s eager eyes will find it, and accept it, and enjoy it for a few moments before being distracted again is my only goal.
The cat licks my face and for a moment reality is back in focus as I look at the TV. I see a hurricane approaching. A wrongfully convicted boxer, or so the story of the hurricane. Bob Dylan takes my hand at the grave side, but I pull away realizing reality is once again lost. He tries to peddle his whiskey to me, but he sadly shakes his head when I offer him money as he looks back at his empty stock. He sold out. We all do if we get lucky enough to live that long, I guess.
A blackness starts to move in as the wind picks up speed. Is the eye of the hurricane watching me? What does it think? Am I dead yet? I’m still not sure but really do we ever know the answer to that. The hurricane judges me like so many other gusting wind bags. The blue bird keeps tweeting from a tree shadowing the cold gray of the perfectly columned and rowed headstones. Order even in the every after. I shoe it away, but it remains. Then, now, and forever. Will they ever decode it? Will the future be able to read it? Will it meet the deadline? DEAD. Line. What is my line? I miss being an actor when all you had to do was yell line and somebody told you what to say.
Like politics. Sheep. Sleep. We just follow the orders of what’s told to us. We don’t write our dreams in a sleep state they are a police state writing us.
Time to rest.
The court jester is calling in sick.
No jokes for you today.
If you don’t like I guess you can write your own damn song.
The room is coming back into focus. The cat is now sleeping on the windowsill where in the distance a storm is brewing. I survived. For now. If I fall any deeper into the Alpha and Omega will I be able to crawl out or is it curtains for me?
Woke like a zombified protester we find Hoyt Williams disheveled, needing a shave, and wearing chrome Ray-Ban’s coving his sick eyes and a red MAGA hat. It’s a press scrum for the next round of the Alpha and Omega tournament.
Reporter: How are you feeling after your first-round loss to Silas Artoria?
Hoyt Williams: Loss? I’ve been sick fighting with a bursa sac in my elbow. I worked through the pain. I worked through the hurt and all I get is a lossy 0 points for my efforts. Unlike Andrew Luck I showed up and gave the fans what they paid for. No excuses. Yes, I was in pain. Yes, pain is never ending. So, deal with it. I would personally like to apologize to Silas for instilling a false hope of confidence into him. Vanity is a vice, and sadly for him, he will fade from contendership like the consciousness of the fans who suffer, often in pain, from the dull aspects of his promos. Also screw all the fans who defended Andrew Luck and his decision. Pat Tillman made the same decision only it was to serve our country where he paid the ultimate sacrifice. That’s a brave move, not taking millions to spend time with you’re family. Every ducking construction worker fan would love to have the same luxury but it doesn’t exit Brave? F-that. Tom Brady who keeps going despite the pain and age. I have no sympathy for a quitter.
Reporter 2: Are you concerned at all with the next round.
The Kyuseishu looks down at his cell phone and smiles a big smile.
Hoyt Williams: Not at all. This is a very serious round a lot of people take for granted because it’s second to last. But with my 14th round pick in this years fantasy draft I’m happy to say I’ll be taking RB Tony Pollard from the Cowboys. First off it’s a stupid mistake for the idiot in the first round to take Elliott with out handcuffing Pollard. His mistake is my gain as it looks like Elliott will miss a few weeks. It will cripple him early, while giving me a back who will get a first round workload for a few weeks, or even longer. Plus, if Elliot gets injured from lack of practice, look at this steal, for what a second to last round pick. Genius. Always think forward, never backwards.
Reporter 2: I was talking about why we are here; the Alpha and Omega tournament and your match with PJ Blake.
Hoyt Williams: The little girl whose daddy got her a job pretending to be a wrestler? Awwww she’s cute. I just want to pinch her cheeks and pat her on the head and tell her it won’t be violent. It won’t be destructive, but as a man of God I must tell the truth and it will be all of the above things plus some. Isn’t nepotism disgusting. I never embraced my family legacy no matter if we’re talking about GOD above, or my wrestling earth father. Why? Because legacy is weakness manifested.
Reporter 2: So you are not worried?
Hoyt Willimas: Will she even show up or will she be to busy coloring in her promo books with fun pictures, fonts, and bullshit. I train, she PlAyS. The epitome of the Millennial. What a vile word. Millennial. No hope, only excuses. I’m hoping I can some how offended her so may she cries and quits so she could get back to practicing on her easy bake oven where she belongs. The breakdown of the American family is the reason we have so many shootings. The millennials chose to run from religion while embracing anime and cosplay. What a joke. PJ Blake is a punchline but I’m too tired and uninterested to write the joke.
Reporter 3: Is everything ok you don’t seem your usual jovial self?
The social justice samurai stand ups abruptly.
Hoyt Williams: Jovial is how you choose to describe me? You want me to smile. You think I’m a damned puppet. A trained money. Well bitch I’m not house broken, nor do I follow anyone but, MY and GOD’s rules.
Hoyt unzips his pants and starts pissing on the table before walking away leaving the press stunned and a puddle dripping. No doubt his well-endowed MANLY holy staff will end up on TMZ. Stay tuned.