Sometimes, I Think

Often times as I imagine myself in the ethereal, or a world besides the one I tread, I'd always a picture a backyard.

A tree.

And picket fences.

"Whatcha drawing?", pranced a little girl with a coon's skin, her hands covered by the smog of industry and toil, 'though she could not have been older than 7.

"Anything that I can see", lazily does the boy whisper, more to himself, than to the new presence.

And this little boy seems to be the sketcher of my dreams. This little boy seems to be the only form of reality I have, conceiving everything he sees and passes it on to me.

It is an awfully mundane thing to contemplate, especially when I've passed my high school years, supposedly already on the track of higher education much more specified to the type of path I would love to speed through (if possible), but I've been trying to go back to the times when I never thought. Never formed ideas and opinions at least, even if I did somehow spoke with my mind.

Can a man who doesn't believe in reality..lie? Is there a fiction if there is no truth? And if there can be many fictions why can't there be many truths?

Silly of me, this was suppose to be a regression to my childhood, but I'm transgressing again.

*rips off a page of the sketch pad*
"Why did you do that?" she questioned.
"I didn't like it"
"But it was raw. Lovely. Not too much shading, the foreground was drafty...but it looked real"
"Exactly. It looked real"

The thing is, I don't think I ever had a childhood. Superficially I had cartoons and toys to entertain me, to instill distractions ere I whisk away into a realm of cold contemplation once again.

Like how I have cigarettes, and pornography, and friends, and lovers, and TV shows, and this sketchpad to carry me somewhere simple and amusing before I naturally fall apart again.

Some people tell me it's all a matter of causality, because I run away from my problems, thus everything from the skedaddle of my brain starts to pervade into ...reality..and I start to get even more and more confused.

"Here"
"This looks silly hahaha. Why is the dragon wearing a top hat?"
"I don't know. Why do you think it's wearing a top hat?"
"Because you put it there"
"Hahaha why did you think I put it there?"
"Is he going to a ball? I've never been to those. Why do dragons have the chance to go to balls and not me?"

A tall lanky figure walked out on the porch with a Chivas in his left hand and a cigarette clamped between his lips asking the little boy to come inside.

"Dammit, Zechariah, I've told you ten fucking times not to talk to them niggas like her"

But always she visited me. Climbing over the picket fence. Or sometimes through the apple tree branches, landing right in front of me.

The tall lanky man chased her out before, with a shot gun.

In my sleep, on my bed, and in my moments of reverie, she was gone. For about two years I thought I was sane. Sane. Sane. Sane.

For all of these adjectives that come to my mind and I don't know what the fuck they mean. What the fuck they mean to me more than they mean to anyone else.

You see my thoughts do not serve society.

They don't. I am not Plato, or Aristotle or a Vinci, obviously not in degree but farther away when it comes to function.

"Pssst. Hey you :) "
"Do you believe in good people?"
"Yes. I believe in good people and I believe that good people exist"
"So..whose side are you on?"
"Me? Georgiana Humphrey? Good side of course"
"I wanna be on your side"
"That's flattering. But why?"
"Because it's either that or I have to make my own side. And that takes a lot of assiduity and hard work. And there's no way I'm going to their side"

But writing these things doesn't mean I care about them.

In fact, indifference is my matron name.

I shall tread past the yard, and back into my bed. But Georgiana Humphrey will always be there.

To guide me. To show me that I am powerful.

That we all are. It's just a matter of whether you want it or not.

"Because one can fabricate what might be perceived truth, but no one can falsify reality."

Simpleton.

There is no good and evil.
There is no good and evil.
There is no good and evil.

Etched on the tree the little boy would normally take refuge under.

And only sometimes, I think.

Other times I live in my thoughts.