my mind like the engine exhaust of a jet plane; as i move towards new branches of thought the old ones loosen, lose their clarity, disintegrate into thin air. until i don't know why i'm thinking that the only justifiable actions are sleeping and (only under the condition that you cannot by any means get back to sleep) drinking, but certainly there's a rationale for this idea, certainly it is grounded in some form of legitimacy. but the trail of exhaust has dissipated and so i cannot look back, cannot even make a guess as to whence this idea came, cannot ever again know. or it's like a cigarette burning down to the filter and all the ash falling away but that's only an accurate simile if i'm chainsmoking, and there's the aspect of it being detrimental to my health which may or may not be accurate; my mind hasn't killed me yet but it's like a horror movie where you run as fast as you can and the killer just keeps walking towards you, your energy drains and drains and drains or you act stupidly and trip or something, but eventually he catches up and then it's over. sometimes my brain is a horror movie but sometimes it's a romantic comedy, and i'm the gay friend even though i've always considered the gay friend to be a tragic figure. i'm one of those toys that gets recalled because china's manufacturing laws aren't as safe as ours or something, and if you try to play with me you'll die. that might be too melodramatic though. if i record my thoughts i can see how i got certain places. i'll never get back to the question of justifications, though, because i didn't record it. and if i stop, if i take a break, if i make food or go to the bathroom or sleep or go to work, then that's lost too. a whole lifetime of thought, lost. candles in the wind or something. or something, or something, or something. i spend all my time alone, usually inside. i don't know the square footage of where i live, but i feel like i'm in a zoo with poor attendance. it's too self-indulgent to call myself a tiger or a cheetah or something, but maybe a giraffe, or a monkey, or a fox or anything. don't worry i'm not making a critique on zoos. it's just that i get claustrophobic. even escaping to the balcony for a cigarette isn't quite enough. i need a porch, some sort of limbo between inside and out there. i need a place to smoke a cigarette where i can transition seamlessly in either direction. because i've got this fourth floor balcony, and whenever the claustrophobia sets in, i get the same impulse as i would on a good, ground-level porch. i could climb over that god damn railing, i really could. fling myself off or something. leave a cavalier note behind, some inside joke or inappropriately lighthearted reference to say, 'don't worry, everyone, nothing could have been done.' but i don't try it, not yet anyways, because something can be done, and if i can just wait a little longer i'll have a porch of my own. in my future i see a lot of broken leases. i don't pace, though. when i'm inside i never pace. the most movement i make is from the couch inside to the couch outside, book to cigarette, cigarette to computer, computer to cigarette, cigarette to tv. repeat for 10 hours, follow with 14 hours of sleep. sleep is the only thing that can be justified, and i don't know if this is the real reason but it's my new reason and i've decided that it counts as valid, because you can't justify living and you can't justify killing yourself but you can justify doing neither and both; death is, as far as i'm concerned, the exact same as sleep without the inevitability of the next day, and sleep is a requisite when it comes to living, so by sleeping you neither embrace life nor death, you can't be faulted for it. except by doctors, but i can't justify doctors. cigarettes and mindless entertainment sometimes get so boring that i want to drink or sleep, but don't have the ability to pull either off, so instead i do the opposite, i take caffeine. cigarettes and caffeine pills make me feel old, not because of the health problems they cause or anything but because they're such soft substances. when i was younger and more adventurous i'd walk for hours looking for a safe, out-of-the-way place to smoke weed; i've got plenty of stories of adrenaline-ridden close calls. and there's always the hospital story. i did acid during high school on a day i had an interview with the principal. when he asked me two positive things about myself, i told him that i was a: loyal (an acceptable answer) and b: responsible. it was the only other word i could think of. you shouldn't tell anyone important that you're responsible if you're on acid, because then you are telling a lie. lies are irresponsible. i was apparently pale and crazy-eyed when i left the interview; my classmates asked if i was okay, what happened, etc, and i just sat down and took deep breaths. but what an adventure! and chugging so many bottles of citrus cough syrup that even the color orange made me gag for the next six months, and then a failed road trip plan turns into a week of playing videogames and doing coke in atlanta. because everything works out in the end, no matter what. and now this, caffeine and cigarettes. barely drugs at all. because it's legal, probably, and maybe it means i'm not getting old, that it's not a real drug to me if it doesn't involve some kind of rebellion. but that doesn't explain why i don't leave the house, why all i listen to is classical, why i feel like the sun never comes out anymore even though it's summer. i might as well start watching terrible medical dramas. but i'm alone, and those are for married people. so i might as well adopt fifteen cats. except that i'm a dog person. so i'm at a loss.

i might as well jump.