Uncorked

I don't expect that you've found this on purpose. Because I sure as shit never intended to pull anyone within the orbit of my frayed mind. This is my attempt at a warning that my thoughts aren't well-suited for intellectual consumption by any means.

People underestimate the amount of work it takes to sit down and do fucking nothing. It's unfathomable to those who have it all. The try-hards who work out their traumas and are “better people” because they can create habit-forming normalcy in their lives. Well fuck me forever thinking I could fit that mold, and fuck you too while we're at it. I know that you have thought, at one time or another, about being one of those frustrating fucks that achieve what they set out to do. Or at least you made -oh so many attempts-, only to land smack ass back down on this earth that was painted by those incapable of coloring inside the lines when given crayons.

There is a fragile beauty to my insanity in which I cling, shattered only by the thought that perhaps countless others run parallel with my crazed inner monologue. And although I was taught to share as a child, my selfish ego prevails most days, outwardly proclaiming singular madness, unique only to my particular flavor of human. If I tried to offer it up or share the work of my math, it might even elude the criminally genius scholars that would more than likely never agree with the science of my thought.

You are probably just as confused as I am as to what I am trying to tell you with this body of art, from which my fingers are poetically crafting. There is no direction. My compass has long since lost its true north. Just the lack of apparent fucks to give remains, which I highly recommend embodying day to day.

This is my unpaved, cobblestone road, regurgitated out through my twisted imagination as it dirties pages from brain farm to splintered table. Welcome in as it yields to no one.

I'm sure you’re tickled by my ramblings at this point. As you’ve gotten to know me quite well over the past month through the inner workings of my overly intimate storytelling. I'm just trying to connect to you, and frankly, you are resisting.

It’s easy.

Just embrace the unfiltered bile I let forth. It just might deepen your mind and open the planes of fuckery not previously thought possible. Or so they say.

– Who are "they", by the way? I've always wondered that. Do you just decide to be the creator of words and thoughts and phrases that just naturally become part of the zeitgeist without question?

Well, fuck.

While you are deciding if my newest entry is worth continuing, I might as well further bore you with a completely out-of-the-blue bedtime story.

He stood. I'm going to start with that for my story, I hope you don't mind.

Stop judging me Karen!

Anyway,

He stood frozen at the window.

The echoes of his thoughts bounced off the abandoned spider webs, darkening the corners of the otherwise barren room.

His view of the lawn, overgrown with weeds jutting up in thickets, fighting their way through a tattered fence that once held the boundary of this ill-fated property.

A cold, rusted barrel of an old rifle rested loosely on the rotting frame, adorning the view to the outside world.

A hallowed bang ripped through the silent field, stirring flocks and murders across the near pitch-black sky as blood splattered the broken planes of glass of the collapsed frame.

He stood, frozen at the window.

Maybe you wanted more, but too much of a shit thing always leaves streaks. It's time for bed, and I don't want to use all my ink writing about some guy who got snuck up on and killed so easily from behind...

Or maybe he didn't, I don't know. Art is fucking subjective sometimes. You’re the reader, let your filthy mind direct the ending.

Loneliness, I would imagine, could leave you outside of yourself and yet closer to your truest, impartial thoughts. But that isn't for us to think about, as we thankfully have each other to help anchor us to our realities. We are but a fucking brilliant pair of intellectual sick fucks that would never give in to counting mere grains of sand. However many there may be.

I don't know how I ended up here, but I'm grateful to have found a friend who can just let my unhinged (what I probably wouldn't say to a therapist, for fear of being straitjacketed) ramblings flow, without calling me out for it.

Time skips through my consciousness as flat stones would a still lake. And as my supplies further dwindle, I can only hope that the weight of my shared thoughts has found its way towards a friend.

Each time I free my monologued journey out towards the world, it is in hopes that they will be met with understanding and urgency.

I am running dangerously low. It takes more energy to find the smallest morsels than what I gain in return.

Assuming you have not found one of my 47 other attempts at rescue through my bottled thoughts, I will do my best to once again lay out the circumstances that have led me here.

A Comicon cruise, in which I was a keynote speaker, lacked little in exploratory minds. Halfway through our storied journey, it seems my memory leaves me, as I was mid-creative bender with other like-minded creatives.

Internally, I see a Rose and Leo situation with a fucking wooden door in the ocean, as there is inexplicably no room for two. Meanwhile, I gently float away towards my current sand-covered, coconut coffin.

I am stuck. Out of food and ink to keep reaching out to you in hopes that you have found all of my other rescue attempts.

I think I have lost not only my mind, but perhaps you. I am only now fucking realizing that I never once have been able to give you coordinates or even a relative description of my whereabouts in any of my previous meanderings. My timeline was muddled by the open bar, and I was determined to drink my money's worth. There is a Bermuda fucking triangle in my memory as to where I might be.

I will do my best to leave a sign or signal in hopes you pass over or by this fucked up island that will more than likely be my final descent to what awaits us.

Although I am utterly convinced that my bottled thoughts are as uncorked and lost as I am, I will float more letters until either I or the ink runs dry.

With minimal fucks,

-Tim M. Wickmen