create_destiny (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
create_destiny) wrote2005-06-14 08:06 am
create_destiny) wrote2005-06-14 08:06 am
Entry tags:
Travel Story Cont. [Part V}
[this is the fifth installment of an on-going story. To read this story in the correct order, scroll down and begin with "Part I" and read your way up. ]
The day Kurt Cobain killed himself I wasn't feeling too well myself.
I was sitting cross-legged on Dee's couch in Fresno, drifting in and out of shock and trance. The timing of Cobain's demise was significant for me. His life was significant for me. As the tv flitted through the events surrounding his death, I sifted through the mental debris of my own collapse. Stunned, not by Cobain's death but by the events that had transpired in my own life. Sorting through shards of what was once faith, faith! in the black hole universe. Chucking broken hunks of useless hope into burn piles. Sweeping glassy shards of love into the trash. Laughing, weeping, screaming over the ridiculous and terrible ashes of who I once was. Repeating that cursed mantra known to all mankind, "How could this have happened?"
Fucking Nutmeg. Little country punk piece of shit genius poet boy.
When the police responded to the 911 call, it was determined that Nutmeg Boy would be best served by going directly to the nearest hospital, and then transfered to the "mental" unit. He couldn't speak. He could only flit his eyes around manically, terrified by something others could not discern. His mind had disintegrated. He was gone. La-la landish, cuckoo cuckoo for cocoa puffs even. The doctors were unable to determine what had caused it or if he would ever recover.
*This line is possibly stolen?
The day Kurt Cobain killed himself I wasn't feeling too well myself.
I was sitting cross-legged on Dee's couch in Fresno, drifting in and out of shock and trance. The timing of Cobain's demise was significant for me. His life was significant for me. As the tv flitted through the events surrounding his death, I sifted through the mental debris of my own collapse. Stunned, not by Cobain's death but by the events that had transpired in my own life. Sorting through shards of what was once faith, faith! in the black hole universe. Chucking broken hunks of useless hope into burn piles. Sweeping glassy shards of love into the trash. Laughing, weeping, screaming over the ridiculous and terrible ashes of who I once was. Repeating that cursed mantra known to all mankind, "How could this have happened?"
Fucking Nutmeg. Little country punk piece of shit genius poet boy.
When the police responded to the 911 call, it was determined that Nutmeg Boy would be best served by going directly to the nearest hospital, and then transfered to the "mental" unit. He couldn't speak. He could only flit his eyes around manically, terrified by something others could not discern. His mind had disintegrated. He was gone. La-la landish, cuckoo cuckoo for cocoa puffs even. The doctors were unable to determine what had caused it or if he would ever recover.
*This line is possibly stolen?