PAGING KENNETH YEUNG

Thu, 07/29/2004 — Fasteriskhead

As I wander through the streets, the light from the streetlamps stabbing through my eyes, making me look down and away like a devout man averting his vision from the sky, I try to make sense of it all. A thousand memories blurred together into a single topheavy whole until I couldn't distinguish one gunfight from another; every episode of rushing into a roomful of men, gunning them down with a yellow haze of slowed-down time, it all seemed the same. Every movement, every shot repeated over and over until I somehow became insensitized, bored with the very act of killing itself. Russians, gangsters, none of it made a difference. I was on a roller coaster, a beautiful lie promising excitement and danger so long as you don't realize that you're on rails. I recalled ridiculous plot twists, lame little in-jokes, scenes of ugly polygonal puppets kissing one another, their emotions a lie created to service a laughable story and their bodies clipping as they touched. The physics were realistic, but none of it seemed to matter in the end. Suddenly the truth hit me with all the cold mechanical precision of a bullet: I hadn't enjoyed it, not enough to matter. I wouldn't be happy, no matter how many of them I splattered across the room.

Things might have been different. There was a man, once, who could have changed things, who might have made everything worth it again... but he's gone now, his site went down months ago. Sometimes I dream that I can run across a room, jump kick a guy in the chest, turn, and slug his friend 3-4 times before roundhousing and tripping him so that he flies ten feet into the air and I can slam him into a wall with a spinning back kick. Sometimes I dream that I can backflip off a wall (and also another human being) or beat the holy fuck out of a whole score of people with a bo staff. But that's all they are: dreams. That's all I'm left with, in the end.

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