Oxygen Plant

  The plane leaves at 7:30 in the afternoon, with five hours to go I was going to be on time to catch my flight and see my friends back in Calgary. My stuff packed and everything  ready to go out the door, I didn’t really know what to do with myself. These moments alone are always a strange kind of awkward, just you and yourself doing nothing and waiting for something to come and unpause your life. Anyways my taxi should be coming soon, and yes I know it’s early to be leaving but my day has been cleared so I have time to kill at the airport. The little rental has served me well over the last two weeks, but I’m ready to completely forget its existence, I don’t care to remember this kind of detail, but it was cozy. Most of the trip wasn’t worth remembering anyways, I did what I had to do during the time I had to do it by.  The views were worth remembering, but I took pictures. The taxi is here to pick me up, it’s a standard car, standard guy. I get in, we barely introduce o...

I had something. I was drunk walking in my empty suburb at night, cars passing by at random intervals, all going at the same speed, 40 km/h. No(w), no, now I’m back home trying to recollect my memories, trying to get them down in words. Music playing into my left ear too lazy to take the earphone out. Messing with my ability to concentrate. My writing style is getting old I need to phase it out. Through the late night, the writer tries to dissociate from the way he expresses himself through words it proves to be quite challenging. I write these words but it’s kinda hard to change the way I write makes me think of high school, the fucked up way of  forming direct phrases. My french low-key mixes in with the way I try to tell stuff. My text writing style also interferes cause I text like real quick as simple as possible tryna rush through the sentences. The writing style gets old  because the way it is written is from the  same perspective every single time. This ...

The bottom of the pond is slightly shallow, not much is growing there at the moment, nevertheless the Salmon seems like he's enjoying himself. He learns about his environment, finally becoming aware of it as he begins to understand how the simple things work. He figures out what he prefers, *aquatic plants or grasses*, he figures out multiple different ways to get back to his favorite spot in the pond, *around the rock or pass the shiny spots*, and even what to do when unexpected predators come around, *hiding in the muck while staying silent*. Eventually, the Salmon knows what to do in every situation, yet he feels as if he doesn't know enough. The pond feels small, yet he doesn't know anything outside it, he feels himself longing for something he does not understand, something he doesn't even have the knowledge to figure out in order to be aware of what is missing. Salmon is left feeling unworthy, yet he knows all there is about his known environment, which to him is ...