sonicjunky

Whent to sleep gleefully listening to the sound of rain outside my window. Woke up to a sleek and shiny world. Heavy clouds drifting by, smell of coffee and the dreamy sounds of Movietone punctuate my morning. My insides are glowing. I wear a smile.

I went to a house this morning:
I ring the doorbell as recognition crawls out of somewhere. Someone answers, we shake, I enter. There's a smell of something growing inside. I'm sure I've been here before. It's a big house. The inside looks like it's never been cleaned. There's years worth of clutter on every wall, floor to ceiling. Ratty furniture crowding every other space leaving only narrow walkways between. It's the sort of place you could stay for a few days, without actually being invited, and in that time you won't figure out who pays the bills. It's pure ghetto. The front yard resembles something between a used car dealership and a junkyard, only, this isn't a ghetto. The house is worth at least half a mill.
The occupants apear somewhat shady but they're warm, honest, good people. The neighbors would love to complain about them if only they didn't like them so much.

I love these places. I don't live like this, I couldn't, but they remind me of times when I did. Times when the only thing certain was that you were living and breathing that very moment, but situations switched from good to bad on an hourly basis. I feel nestalgia for these times because I was really alive, always on edge and highly creative. Something as basic as cleaning the house just seems impertinent, a useless disguise or distraction. Routine and comfort sapp the electricity. Like the microwave, coffee-maker, blender, TV, stereo, computer, phone, high watage light bulbs that use every bit of energy your fuses will give, leaving just enough for your digital clock keeping it all on schedule.