About Being Alone

About Being Alone

__________

Scott Allen

About Being Alone Copyright © 2009 by Scott Allen scottallen.biz All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

2

I'm in a place.

Silence is better.

I sent her a song.

The man who talked to himself.

It's “no” every step of the way.

3

I feel like a dead animal.

Being alone is what makes you what you are.

A friend with no friends.

We don't see a lot with our eyes.

God said, “shh.”

4

We are neither dead nor living, but somewhere in between.

I see old people racing to the finish line in their cars.

Pens everywhere.

He walked down to the river. Sat down on his knees. And hoped. He went looking for inspiration, imagination and feeling.

5

By the time progress comes around, there isn't any.

Everything is new, so a moment is important.

A boat with red sails moving by. I am near the ocean.

Life is a crusade for some, a bonanza for others.

6

Don't think about ___________.

Lost, losing, getting, a loss.

There was music behind them.

Is there anything to the motion of traffic? The uncertain destination of cars.

Hope is endless, not continuous. 7

It is the same for everybody, except you, me.

There is a voice, no matter what it is, it is still a voice.

We live on and on hoping to find this “on and on.”

I can see my eyes. They see something else. I don't know how it works.

8

All things disappear into a crowd.

I'm not even a part of this world. I'm a particle.

It was death again, once more, forever someone else's.

A gift to myself.

9

It is because the artist is free that we are free.

They watched him sleep.

We are made to live. To wake up each day and keep going. At least our bodies are. Our minds are another story.

Forgotten, detached.

10

Don't ever see him, just look at his words.

I write like someone else, but with my own pen.

My house is an apartment. My apartment is a room. My room is a dwelling. My dwelling is a home.

We are all bored, chaotic.

11

At the very bottom of her voice, tease, scratch, the.

He looked down from his car at the squirrel, lying peacefully, by the road.

Speech is a habit. Silence is a wait.

Words are kind of dreamy.

12

The night is in me. The day is outside. I'm like night and day.

What is the present? Somewhat present.

Away, going, bye, once again, back!

We don't know what is going on, but we do.

13

I'm supposed to be the same no matter what happens.

I'm so bereft of pleasure that I cry a little.

Listen. All I have to do is listen.

It takes time to be good. It comes and goes.

14

Is there a language other than language? The question of music.

A moment (un)like any other.

“Why would you want someone to read this?” “I honestly don't know. Perhaps...no, I'm not sure.”

Acknowledgements, reminders, destinies.

15

Notes to myself.

A book is about now, just then.

I'm at a stoplight. I get impatient. The light turns green. I forget. Go.

Love—two people being the same who are not the same.

16

I just watch people's lives.

He led the simple life, whatever that was.

We are going toward no place we have ever been before.

Where was I?

Live in the “Moment.” 17

He had eyes.

To be alone again.

“Excuse me. Do you have a pen?” --”Thank you.”

It's important to be nothing at all.

She is the best kept secret.

18

Death is possible.

He was different from his countrymen.

What made him write? His thumb.

She stirs the imagination.

In every house is something different.

19

You're not what you were before.

There's a little book.

Death is creepy.

The hour is over.

Everyone keeps trying to say more than they know.

20

I express myself, only. I express everything there is, only.

Life: something you can copy, mimic, imitate.

There is something “spiritual” in just being.

Don't be mad at them, they make you what you are.

21

Dream: half-knowing.

What is should not be. You could almost say that.

Too far, far, too.

The earth is spinning around me.

It always comes and goes, strays and leaves, begins. 22

Black here, blue there.

Confusion—to feel strong about nothing at all.

To grow is to accept the population.

I may be on to something. I may not.

It looks like a city. 23

We speak in a hundred ways.

Without going into detail, you pass yourself off as who you are.

Weeks remained, days ended, months began.

Words come and go. People change.

24

Don't look outside. Keep going!

The music does that.

It's mostly about death.

All you have is your face.

We live on bs.

25

“See you tomorrow, if I don't die in a plane crash.”

He followed him around like a sick child.

He carried a penny.

A big, fat “No.”

He sat next to his cat. 26

Your life: it is part of the same “dream” on any given day.

He slept with his book.

Hold on. I'm in love.

Death in a minute.

There is always that “some place” to go. 27

Bittersweet.

I see faces.

I have to fight and lose at the same time.

It's impossible. The only thing you need to know.

It's better for your life if you don't know about mine. 28

She's going to give me hard time for having no money and being who I am.

Ride the bike. I mean the bicycle. That is, the lightning.

They lived their lives like they had done it before.

I feel better than I did yesterday. I don't know though. It all seems relative.

29

I'm wasting time in nowheresville.

Our minds are in the moment. Time is everlasting.

Last look.

The future may not happen.

His book was a trail of words that led to him. 30

It feels good to read. It's been years.

We are basically in shock all the time at the prospect that we are going to die.

Alone in the big city.

It's a miracle I'm outside and going to get a haircut.

31

Bitter, cold and angry.

I need somebody. Who? I don't know. Somebody I don't know. Yes. A stranger.

It's just going by.

I write. So do you. We write “together.” 32

To write; a word that is written, created.

Trail of desire.

I saw her hand.

Go nowhere. Do nothing. Be no one.

33

It was, after all, just some cheap entertainment.

Death. The backdrop of our lives.

Ignore everything.

He ate alone.

Cats are thoughts. 34

He whispered, “impossible.”

Love is impossible except when you are in love.

Explosion.

The need for forever, the wish for better.

There is never enough time to figure it out.

35

The beauty of silence is when you don't have to say anything.

Ache.

...reading just enough to write.

I'm free. Not really, I am.

36

Every day was a day to do what had not yet been done.

All you have to do to be lost again is snap your fingers.

There has to be a world.

Close to the night is ... morning.

Up, up ... nowhere. 37

It's all writing.

The mood swingers.

Eternity, the moment that goes on.

Patient, already impatient.

Someone, somewhere, is writing this sentence.

38

You want to be different than you are. But then you want to be the same as well. Without being you, you continue being both.

I could be more alone. Yes, I could.

Fire, shoots and points.

A little better, want.

39

If ever, if when?

I may just be repeating myself.

I'm in another realm: realm.

the not-beyond

A good conversation is one no one else is having.

A quiet thanks. 40

I don't live, so I can write, see.

Just walk out into the night.

While everyone was at work, I was in the clouds.

To know that you don't know more than anyone else is your strange goal.

41

I know who I am. I'm down here.

You can only see so much with your eyes.

We're just going through the motion until we die.

Burn the newspaper, smash the tv, kill the radio and throw the computer out the window.

42

Do you know the meaning of late? It is way past late.

The mind is like a dream.

It's lonely out there.

No.

Death: what is the world coming to?

43

This is it for me.

He had the silver tongue.

Forgetting that I am nothing more than a contradiction.

Where it takes me, I belong. If only I didn't go there.

I have no place. 44

In creativity, nothing is allowed.

I”m keeping myself here!

What I see is not what I see.

He didn't have to write.

When you can't say anything, nothing seems true.

45

Change toward what? (They were sure of something.)

Are you what they think you are? Perhaps not.

Tiny stars kept him going.

Do as you please, sort of.

“Come find me,” the call of the lost. 46

You made it, only you didn't.

It is too quiet to do anything.

I have no thoughts. I'm as empty as a canvas with paint splattered on it.

The morning is fresh somehow, almost new.

47

I walked across the floor. I didn't, though someone in me did. A man. When I walked back, he was gone.

Progress, a moment.

They thought of him because of the places he went, the things he did, the things he said and the solitude he was in afterwards.

To go from place to place: economy. 48

the

He was creating from here, this room, this street, land.

I did it without doing it.

I killed a leaf.

A pen.

I got a tiger.

49

Maybe I'm doing what I want.

She see something in me that I don't want to see.

We all have the same problem.

Death before my eyes.

A writer with no name.

50

This is my first time being here alone.

I slept.

Is it that we are more concerned about the wealth of others than our own?

I look stupid.

I'm all imagination.

51

City lights don't mean anything.

Death: you'll never put on your socks again.

“Be glad you're alive.” “I don't know about that.” “I mean you should be.” “Yeah.”

I just changed.

52

She's got the sweetest face. A really special look.

It's what makes the merry-go-round go around: _____________.

The real is not real. Though we live as if it is.

I don't even know the meaning of the words. Thus, I don't write, I try to write. (It gets very technical.)

53

I will lose: I mean I have lost. That is, I am losing.

I stretch.

What writing does: if it doesn't confuse, it refreshes.

People compare themselves badly with others.

54

Here: where?

I missed the night because I missed the day. I'm on a course.

They took pleasure in holding the pen, pressing it down, and moving the hand with it, accordingly.

The same thing that saves us, loses us ...anonymity.

55

To listen is to hear something new.

Back and forth, straight, circular, back again, forth.

You're not a wreck. You just need a change of scenery.

In the middle is a good place if you can get there.

56

You don't even know who you are.

A book connotes understanding.

I can't. But I will anyway.

I write for them, me.

A new region to live, build, grow, construct, tear down. 57

Why do they remain alone? ... I almost had it.

It could be something, it could be nothing at all, it could be something else.

Sometimes you get stuck and realize who you are; lost again, going out to find something that is not there, but always still looking.

There is nothing unique but the simple movements of “beings.” Anything else is just interior glossy. 58

When I look at you, I see your ways.

They had a gift for each other: vision.

No other way to be? No?

I don't know what being is. Perhaps it is everything.

59

“You must say something.” “I will try to be quiet.”

A writer keeps going.

Everything felt awful just then. Like everything was so disappointing. Like it would not change. Like life and nothing else.

The only thing to say is that I'm looking out the window into a blue sky, clear day.

60

It's just the way we are.

We are made for each other.

You can't say anything. What you can say is not that interesting.

Criticism. It makes you what you are.

It's not that easy. 61

The magic pen.

Everyone has philosophical thoughts. It's what gets them through the day.

Get lost.

“You're living in a dream world.” “I better get out.”

Shoot, I was doing better before. 62

I just wrote it. What do you mean it doesn't exist? I just wrote it. It's there.

“Where did you make that up at?” “See that star way, way over there.”

Are you trying to depress me?

To life.

63

Life. Just another word.

The man who has a cigarette.

This is her song.

I went out on a limb.

Writing gets me going.

64

“It's okay.” “Life?” “No, I mean the book.”

I like her long hair.

It doesn't feel like a dream.

I don't know what you look like.

The last cup. 65

I've lost interest.

Don't say anything.

Let me be.

I'm going to take my own advice.

Little bits.

66

Death is so important.

(When you are in love) a mortuary is not a mortuary, but just another place of business.

I could do that.

I'm in a writing mood.

Cats: the meaning of life. 67

Too impossible to do anything.

I didn't die today. I wont die tomorrow either. But the day after that, I'm not so sure about.

You can look back and say it was all random.

Juice.

68

He made a good decision.

I am a writing fool.

I am a coincidence.

I don't know what I said.

It's like a death.

69

He said to his cat, “I know you are there.”

I have to get this book out to others. Why? Because I want them to read it. So. It's a social thing.

His whole life was a risk, a gamble.

Oh, I don't like this day.

70

We're close to the end.

They come from long, long ago.

Aids.

Take a plane somewhere.

There is something else out there.

71

Don't forget. It's sad.

I can't get by.

You make it unique.

We learn from each other.

When I look at you, I say “whatever.”

72

I don't even know what I did.

They saw the sky too.

Time goes by similar to the way the day goes by.

Where are we going? To the pit.

I could spend a lifetime figuring it out. 73

I've done this before.

I'm waiting for the black guitar.

I don't have to tell anyone.

I can write from anywhere.

Death. I'm craving the past.

74

My cat stares at me so honestly.

(Pretend you are not going to die.)

We think we have an idea to get by on. As long as its freshness lasts, we are okay. After that, it is back to being lost.

Most of us are stranded here in the middle.

75

What we learn is by chance.

In a day the book is written, a peculiar day. A day that almost doesn't question.

A talent for being solitary: the writer.

The earth is not far.

76

I grow on and on. If that doesn't work, I'll never change.

I'm at the center circle.

Life is confusion. There is no doubt about that. Yet, at times, I feel bold.

If I knew who I was, I would be someone else.

77

The study of oneself is a dead end, if not a trap.

A new day, a new Saturday. What are they doing? Going to the movies, the park, visiting. Nothing! At least they have plans.

We are run by pleasure.

Life is the art of life.

78

Confusion is a masterpiece.

I guess I can go on.

Words are nothing but a blur.

I can't find myself now. I feel cheap.

I think one thing and think I have thought it all. 79

There was a place called home.

I almost forgot who I was: a silent man.

I can't change, I'm changeless.

The wind hit me in the face. I fought back.

I try for the truth. Yet, I always get something else. 80

I've been on roads with no signs.

We try to be like others. This failing is who we are.

I might as well write. What am I going to do? Sit there like an idiot.

Death cannot be grasped. You can not get around it. And yet, it is the direction you are moving in. (The essential without any essence.) 81

The outside is always there. You just don't notice it.

Real? True? It's all a hoax.

Yet, somehow people are always there. You sort of pretend they are not.

A thousand things are taking place.

82

It is going to happen, the contrast between us. We will fall short of each other. We will not wait. We will meet again.

This book is twenty five pages long now. That's a quarter of a century.

A loner: one who comes out alone.

The next step is madness.

83

Writing takes place in a void. It has no surface.

A lack of confidence is what I am. It doesn't matter, I change.

Today I didn't go on. I stood still.

I try to get to something that isn't there. I stab at it constantly.

84

I don't know what is best for me. I do as I please. Thus, I lose my way. I give what I can.

I travel around here.

Don't pay too much attention to this life and even less to the next one.

Try again tomorrow.

85

Notes to myself.

It almost doesn't matter.

We're creating a religion for everyone.

I feel like I am by myself.

I can't get any weaker.

86

I'll die lost.

I live here?

I'll look at it later. (Life)

I persisted through ebbs and flows and peaks and valleys.

He wore black. 87

My nerves are flying.

I'm on my own.

It's so simple. It's impossible.

I did it.

Death is light.

88

I might not make it another fifteen minutes.

I have to reach out. That is where the music is.

Death doesn't go anywhere.

Fear prompts desire.

89

Be quiet. Be silent. Be ...

I don't know where I am.

I have no age.

I learn. I struggle. I go on.

90

I don't know where the pen is.

It's Sunday.

I need some life.

We're all the same. I forgot.

Ahh, I'm home. 91

Death is a reminder.

You're not alone.

It's Monday. Sunday is past. The raucous starts again. I go to a quiet place when I can.

I live somewhere else.

92

I don't want to get mad.

I listen to music, look at my cats and dream.

I can't look.

You don't do anything. You don't go anywhere. You really don't see anyone. What is your life? Nothing? Uh-huh.

93

There is nothing authentic about it.

It is futile to do anything. When it all turns to “bubble gum” anyway. What do you do then? Do it anyway.

I'm on my own.

I see someone. They're walking. I recognize them as anonymous.

94

It was like a rollercoaster, not just up and down, but with twists and turns, and sometimes, straight away.

Sometimes you can see the future. It is so far off that you are not sure if that is what you saw, but, in some way, you know it was. That is all you can expect to see of it.

A new region to live, build, grow, construct, tear down.

95

There is always a truth to be had, floating around in one's life somewhere. I am truth-free, she declared.

In the world, want is want. In you, something else.

Inspiration separates us all.

Things on the floor, not just there, but everywhere.

96

There is a woman leaning over, touching the ground. She is walking now, taking steps. Two young girls pass by. This is the beach.

To be, to be yourself, feel like yourself, like you, no matter what comes or passes, doesn't come or pass.

97