**This was kind of an experimental piece, inspired by Daniel's story about the X-acto knives. I don't need much feedback, but a bit would be appreciated :).
I was trying the DFW-esque thing where you say things that are seemingly random/insignificant/disconnected, but aren't. Did it work, ish? Was it too choppy? What parts stood out, good and (especially) bad? Also, how's the beginning? I'm starting to hate it.**
The moon is sharper than his knives tonight. The lack of light tastes like tears. He has erased the phrase “tortured soul” from his vocabulary. His eyes are dry. His phone has been off all day, and he and I both know that his girlfriend has called him multiple times already. He isn’t thinking about her. She’s moving to Paris for a year. He has decided not to be jealous of the French boys there, with their accents. His toes are cold. He thinks how beautiful it would be to hurt. He can’t smell anything. The streetlight is on outside. Where are the streetlights? No one ever thinks about streetlights. His knives must be cold. He brushes them with his fingers, like the knives are baby birds. He has always wished he could save fallen baby birds. He cracks his knuckles, one by one. This way, it takes more time. He stares at the lid of the box. Its faux leather covering is mocking him. The pasta he had for lunch was not fully cooked. He hasn’t had coffee in three days, and he’s not sure if he misses it. His door is unlocked. His clothes are folded, but not well. All the appliances are unplugged. He doesn’t want to waste taxes. Two winters ago, he burned his journals for warmth. The significance of this is that there aren’t many of his thoughts for people to pick through. He raises his right hand, lets it float in the air for a moment, like he is reading a poem out loud and its music is shaping his body. His hand comes to rest on a knife in the center of the box, a medium-sized one. He thinks its handle will fit well in his palm. He tests it. It’s moderately perfect. He realizes that he wouldn’t be holding the knife this way if he goes through with it. He thinks, begins to move it to his arm; no, that angle would not work. He puts it back. Something light would be better. He likes heavy things. He’s trying to get himself not to like this. He swallows. His mouth tastes like hemlock; what hemlock might taste like. He picks up the second smallest knife. The curtains are a little bit open. The glint of the metal in the moonlight looks like his girlfriend’s silver earrings. Shit, now that will always be in his head when he sees those earrings. He smiles. He loves her. This knife is good. He rubs his left forearm with his knuckles. He’s always been athletic, and his veins are popping out. Too easy. He almost laughs. Why would it be so easy? He doesn’t laugh because he knows what makes it hard: it’s the not really wanting to be sitting here with this open box of knives and the clothes folded and the appliances unplugged; it’s doubt; it’s having things to hold him back. He knows – he’s been here before. It’s almost time for the cherry blossoms to bloom. He isn’t sure what gets him out of bed in the morning, but there is something. He holds the knife over his arm. He rests the blade on his wrist. He breathes, closes his eyes, trying to feel poetry or pain in the cold blade. He is scared that the blade is too sharp and will cut without pressure, and he draws it away without opening his eyes. He opens his eyes, puts the knife back, shuts the box. Not this year, again. I nod. Good.
I was trying the DFW-esque thing where you say things that are seemingly random/insignificant/disconnected, but aren't. Did it work, ish? Was it too choppy? What parts stood out, good and (especially) bad? Also, how's the beginning? I'm starting to hate it.**
The moon is sharper than his knives tonight. The lack of light tastes like tears. He has erased the phrase “tortured soul” from his vocabulary. His eyes are dry. His phone has been off all day, and he and I both know that his girlfriend has called him multiple times already. He isn’t thinking about her. She’s moving to Paris for a year. He has decided not to be jealous of the French boys there, with their accents. His toes are cold. He thinks how beautiful it would be to hurt. He can’t smell anything. The streetlight is on outside. Where are the streetlights? No one ever thinks about streetlights. His knives must be cold. He brushes them with his fingers, like the knives are baby birds. He has always wished he could save fallen baby birds. He cracks his knuckles, one by one. This way, it takes more time. He stares at the lid of the box. Its faux leather covering is mocking him. The pasta he had for lunch was not fully cooked. He hasn’t had coffee in three days, and he’s not sure if he misses it. His door is unlocked. His clothes are folded, but not well. All the appliances are unplugged. He doesn’t want to waste taxes. Two winters ago, he burned his journals for warmth. The significance of this is that there aren’t many of his thoughts for people to pick through. He raises his right hand, lets it float in the air for a moment, like he is reading a poem out loud and its music is shaping his body. His hand comes to rest on a knife in the center of the box, a medium-sized one. He thinks its handle will fit well in his palm. He tests it. It’s moderately perfect. He realizes that he wouldn’t be holding the knife this way if he goes through with it. He thinks, begins to move it to his arm; no, that angle would not work. He puts it back. Something light would be better. He likes heavy things. He’s trying to get himself not to like this. He swallows. His mouth tastes like hemlock; what hemlock might taste like. He picks up the second smallest knife. The curtains are a little bit open. The glint of the metal in the moonlight looks like his girlfriend’s silver earrings. Shit, now that will always be in his head when he sees those earrings. He smiles. He loves her. This knife is good. He rubs his left forearm with his knuckles. He’s always been athletic, and his veins are popping out. Too easy. He almost laughs. Why would it be so easy? He doesn’t laugh because he knows what makes it hard: it’s the not really wanting to be sitting here with this open box of knives and the clothes folded and the appliances unplugged; it’s doubt; it’s having things to hold him back. He knows – he’s been here before. It’s almost time for the cherry blossoms to bloom. He isn’t sure what gets him out of bed in the morning, but there is something. He holds the knife over his arm. He rests the blade on his wrist. He breathes, closes his eyes, trying to feel poetry or pain in the cold blade. He is scared that the blade is too sharp and will cut without pressure, and he draws it away without opening his eyes. He opens his eyes, puts the knife back, shuts the box. Not this year, again. I nod. Good.
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