Unfiltered 1
In full transparency, I did in fact look at the page now and I had to correct that last question because it didn't end up being the right collection of words. Is collection right here? I think there's a better word, like a sort or a row of words. Arrangement is the one I was looking for. It wasn't the right arrangement of words. I initially wrote 'which one is right?' when the truth is there is no 'right' answer in writing. There are only better, more fitting words. There is no better words. Are no better words. Fuck it. Grammar out the window for a time.
I'm sitting in bed with my feet pressed into my mattress. I've been in one position for so long that I might be giving myself mini bedsores on the bottoms of my feet. I've just deleted my LinkedIn profile on the basis of fuck that, and I'm trying to relax and unwind. Just like I said, to clear the mind. I had a glass of tea and a cup of water but I have a headache. I thought darkness would help, but instead my eyes hurt the same and my mind wandered to distant places.
I was in the car today and I did a thing where I record myself and I just talk about whatever project I'm working on. I started my new one a while back, and today I was able to really hone in on what's going to make the whole thing pop. I can't tell you, but I wish I could. I suppose you'll have to find out. It's truly shocking, truly fitting, and truly what I've been looking for. Isn't it such a refreshing feeling to figure out the missing link in the story? Like, you can write a character and hone in on their personality all you want, but if you don't have a good story, then a good character ends up in the suburbs of your mind, unable to reach their full potential because they're hindered useless by their own four walls of white picket fence. They're perfect, you love to look at them, but damn them all because they don't account for anything other than an idealized person. And that's probably the most fictional part of your whole story up until then. A perfect, silent, serene, god-like person. Even if they're flawed to shit and riddled with anxiety they're still a perfect specimen trapped in a bottle if they don't have a story! No plot, no person.
I think in just letting the fingers do the talking, I've actually come up with a belief. That right there is a belief, and you just read it in real time as I formed it. Do new beliefs stand any less true in the heart of the pure? In the heart of the un-wondered? The hearts of those who didn't know they believed such?
Do beliefs form or are they there from the start?
There's a funny thing about beliefs and opinions. Everyone's got one for just about everything. Down to the littlest things. Everyone has an opinion on everyone else- they just don't know it until they meet the person. Then an opinion forms. Does it form? Or was it always there.
Perhaps opinions are not opinions in the way that we think. Maybe everything is a bias. I'd research the difference, but right now I'm busy typing. Perhaps you can take a look at it when you're done reading this. In my simple understanding, a bias is a preference based on data inputs from a previous moment which shape the current reception of an input. I get hit by a red car, I subconsciously (I used auto correct for that one.) will avoid red cars with a danger bias. In my opinion, red cars look nice regardless of my danger bias. My first love was a brunette and my formative attractions tended to have dark hair, therefore when faced with the conundrum of the blonde or the brunette, the brunette is typically the knee jerk reaction- however I choose blonde over brunette almost every time. Why? Because I prefer blondes. That's an opinion. I have a bias for brunettes.
There is a difference, and I hope I've got that right. Later when you look back and laugh at how wrong or right I was, just know that I tried my best but I'm typing about fifty words a minute. I don't know how long I've been typing nor do I know how long this whole blog is, but I know one thing is certain: it is 2:20am and my headache is keeping me awake almost as much as typing this is.
Have you ever typed on a Macbook Air? The keyboard is to die for. There is nothing quite like an Apple keyboard. I grew up with Apple products from a young age. That's a bias. I don't like Lenovo keyboards because they feel too chunky. That's an opinion. Apple is the superior machine based on their recent strides in chips like the M$. That's a subjective objection with an opinion latched to the fact.
I'm just riffing. I can't think of much more to say.
Oh right, I was talking about the keyboard.
The way it clicks and clacks with a dim blueish light behind it in the dark makes me so happy. It's almost like the writing comes with an addictive sound. Like how slot machines play loud chimes to keep you interested, my Mac makes me want to keep pressing buttons. In turn, we get these long rants and rambles. Wow I struggled to type that word. Rambles. Rambles. Rambles.
My gums hurt from the Zyns. I'm doing one per day, and I'm doing well. Sometimes I'll have two and it'll be a good day, but then the next day I crave two of them and I have to battle the addiction. Wow my gums are pulsing in pain right now. I can't afford gum grafts at this time. It's too expensive to get them done, but maybe one day I will. I might have to, the way this pain is shooting into my jaw bone. It's not even my gums that hurt- it's deeper. Almost from within. Maybe it's mouth cancer. Wouldn't that be the kicker? Survive all that life just to get taken out with cancer? Mouth cancer would be the funnier things to die from, I think. Liver cancer and lung cancer feel self-caused. Mouth cancer feels like a kick in the balls from death telling you to shut up. Maybe my words were carcinogenic. Maybe I should use a filter.
It's interesting what they say about cigarette filters. They used to say it kept it from being dangerous. Now they say it doesn't do anything- and it's worse. Have you ever smoked an unfiltered cigarette? I have. It's fucking disgusting. When I was 17, I was dating a girl who rolled her own cigarettes. She sucked at it, but she was kindof a hippie so I thought it was cool. She'd roll me one, lick it up and have me wait to smoke it. Sometimes she'd give me one and send me away for a while. I coughed it down in the alley and went up to my room to wash my hands rigorously with bar soap. It took me a long time to get caught smoking cigarettes. A long long time.
When I turned 17, my parents bought me a leather jacket. It was like a biker jacket. I donned my aviator shades and joked that all I needed to do was pick up smoking. My mother said she'd smell it right aways. The man at the convenience store attached to our apartment complex sold me a pack of Newports that night, and it took until late April the next year for my mom to catch a whiff. The best part is that she never even smelled it! My dad searched through all my stuff and found two packs in my bed. I still remember them- one was Marlboro Reds and the other was Newport Menthols.
My feet ache from the typing, so I shuffled them over on the bed. I think it's time to sleep. If you've come this far, just know that I am thankful for you reading all of this. I know there are only two or three of you, but every reader- anonymous or not- counts towards all of this. If you ever want to reveal who you are, please please please just DM me on instagram. It's not weird, I promise.
Thanks, and bye for now.
C. A. Winter
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