Tired state

Looking down at the zig zags what make my legs to the floor, all I hear is shout-chattering drunks. Im exhausted and at the same time, charged in thought, in this garage.  There was a lot of seat switching, my friends were around but they were all engaged in their own circles, or couples. Talking of old times.

I was listening to a conversation, the best I could in my tired state, about personal philosophies. This topic was a constant at these sorts of gatherings. Especially near the art school. Awful. I couldn't stand it and what made it worse was that I knew, inside, that I had participated in excited conversations about my views only 2-3 years before. In the same way. The same style even. That was really it, it was the style of sharing opinions they used that bothered me. so anxious to spit out their exciting new world views.I was guilty, aswell.

I turned my ears. I couldn't seem to get angry, in my tired state, but a little anxious. Uncomfortable. I looked over to my friend, who wrote, who was in the same way as I, in his tired state. He looked back, direct, to say he understood. We both looked off to find new topics to observe. 

First I chose the girl who never had anything to say. She was beautiful. Deep black eyes. Dead. She had nothing to say. I prodded her with a few words of my own and there was nearly no response. 

I turned my attention to the budding conversation of my close friend Berret and a girl he had slept with one new years. I was especially drunk on this  new years, (due partial to good company and more so to the open bar.) and spent it charging up and down the hill they lived on with fellow fools. The evening ended with a bout of vomiting with three acts. First was relief. Then hardship. Then desperation. This was a much different new years than Berret's. I don't suppose his was too much better. He sketched a similar vomit story, and we left so early the next morning, he couldn't possibly have said goodbye to the girl after. Yet here they were again, and chatting. None of the words made sense. I was lost into memories. My tired state craved to dream.

We all switched chairs.

I ditched mine.

The other tired fellow and I were upstairs having a long conversation about the past few months of his life, which had been fairly eventful and out of the ordinary. He had landed himself in a bit of trouble  by way of his love for heroine. Some spark ignited a fuse what led to his need to flee and he was off, taking with him a good friend of mine. This left a current project in a strange place. ( He was playing guitar for our group, this friend, not the one I was with, but rather the one who had escaped the states alongside the other tired fellow.) We talked about the hi-jinx and mishaps of his trip, England, then France, then back. Im not sure what the idea was at this point in my life.

I find a chair-

Back in the garage. Berret is now fully engaged in conversation with his new years bride. Im feeling especially tired and a little reflective. This sends me to feel sad and wonder what Im doing here. These gatherings had lost their meaning. There was no reason to be there. To strut or show something off. I can't say I had nothing to prove, but this certainly wasn't the forum. 

Sometimes the timing of certain events lend themselves to theological daydreams, of gods. Of 'Maybe some of this was planned!' 's. Silly thoughts, only generated out of admiration for the

pleasantness of them. My close friend, A girl, Penny, came up and fell into a chair beside me. She wasn't in our tired way, but she was down. She knew I was down and knew she was transparent as much as I was. We agreed on what we thought of where we were. We agreed on what the things had turned into, or always were. We wanted to go home.