Hi-Piphany

It's October 2nd, 2020 - yep, that year. I'm sitting on the Q train, dressed in my yellow Forever 21 'Possibility' pullover hoodie, blue Girbaud jeans, and all-black Sk8-hi vans that've shown some definite signs of wear. I'm also rocking a paisley sky blue bandana on my fresh cut, rocking it in 90's to early Y2K music video fashion. I have a multicolored MTV VMAs face mask on. And my eyes are glazed and red, bloodshot from the J I smoked, but also sleepy looking with droopy bags and darkened circles. I definitely haven't been getting my rest like I should've. Anxiety been a real soul sucking bitch lately. Can't even dash she like a cyattie even if I wanted to. Sorry that was a lil misogynistic.

Why does it matter to highlight these things, you're wondering? Well for starters, we often experience these cold opens or slight in-media res prologues within the books we love and loathe, in which a scenario or a situation at hand is explored before we get to know who the main players are. So I figured - why not introduce myself instead? Or give you a picture of my steez. Or is it spelled steeze? Doesn't matter. The bottom line is, I want to shake things up a bit. Be forthcoming, straightforward, unconventional maybe. Even if all I'm expressing are my platitudes. But that's how good writers get started, write? Pumping the bullshit from our stomachs like the way antibiotics get out infections. That way beautiful healing can present itself. Maybe that's what I need - healing.

Don't worry about my name, it's not important right now. What is important though is that while I was dosing off for a hot minute, I felt a nudge. Now if you're from NYC, you know any kind of movement such as this is viewed as a transgression that's liable to getting one fucked up on sight. But I'm a different breed. I ended up shooting awake, looking around for the person who disturbed my peace. Instead, I found a black book next to me, on my seat. New and pristine.

I checked to see it was from Moleskine (bars) and though I'm more of a fan of Designworks Ink's Standard Issue Notebook No 3, I couldn't pass up the chance to collect another literary treasure. Just like when I was a kid when I used to collect random pens and pencils off the school grounds. A magician always needs his tools and I know, I know, it's COVID. But if it makes you feel better while reading this, at least I sanitized it...

Anyway, I did what all writers do and began writing this vignette. I wrote about how splotched the subway was with only black and dirty mustard yellow. How the dirty surfaces contributed to the vacant, decrepitness. Like the way my entire being has been feeling through this pandemic, like it's becoming hollowed out like these endless tunnels. Like I'm in purgatory of some abysmal experience. You would think with all this shit happening, 2020 would open a lot of eyes, even thoughs purposely closed by greedy bastards. You would think they would indoctrinate themselves to a factor of change. But no - we keep diving deeper and darker into our own inclinations, and so we keep fucking and doing the same shit. All over again. And it's disgusting to be honest. Like we deserve so much more, NEED so much more. And it feels like we're cruising through a blind faith. Where was I again?

Anyways, if solving our problems were as simple and easy as pie, then I would test that theory by saying, "I'll believe in good days when 20K drops into my account." That would be fair, right? All the other countries are doing it. Except we have to fend for ourselves, overwork ourselves, be unkind to ourselves just to prove nothing into something - that with all this material culture, we're somebody when that's the furthest from the truth. But capitalism does make a guy shine bright through the fog that is this reality. And my is it heavy?

Getting tired of me complaining about my woes, I decided to switch up the flow and maybe write something more... positive? If you ever meet me, you'll find me to be as such but on the inside, it feels way darker than ever. When I blacked out briefly, I remembered "waking up" on my block as I trudged home with atrophied limbs from the devil's vapor within, recounting a spell my boyfriend told me - "Universe, I don't know what will happen in the next 24 hours, and I have no attachment to what will happen in the next 24 hours. Work your magic as it should be and I will just be open to receive whatever comes into my life."

And so when I got in, I used the last ounce of my energy to transcribe that. They say one of the focal points for manifestation is tactile experience, mixed with envisionment. I lucidly envisioned money coming my way. Accolades, notoriety, mixed with imaginary interviews and the possibilities of me bringing my ideas to life. If I didn't mention before, I'm a failed writer, a flukey filmmaker with not enough shine to clean my dirty boots and my seasonal depression has already kicked in, along with a ton of medleys of other bad mental shit that I could get into next time.

But I then envisioned what I would do with that money outside of myself - maybe giving back to a charity? Supporting art friends' funds for projects, or maybe even giving back to the homeless? But nothing ever seems enough for us. So I envisioned that I would get $20,000. Nothing too small, nothing too big. Plus it fits the 2020 vision thing. See what I'm doing? I remember one last stroke of my pen, followed by one last chant as I wrote, followed by one last touch of my palms on the papers as I put my energy into it.

And then all lights went out. When I woke up, I had the munchies as well as morning breath, but that had to wait for my daily socials check-up. I then went to check on my unemployment - chump change for the win. And what I found in my bank account... well you can figure out the rest.

Who knew blessings could be so non-spontaneous, unlike the movies. But this isn't a movie, now is it?

I thank you for reading.