Add Some Context
I do not think my life is like a movie. Movies are nice little chunks of well said things ending in some type of resolution (if they are done right), and life is hardly so.
Edits: made this piece less melodramatic
Animated by (Who?)
Whose gait do I emulate, and how carefully chosen are my words in the style of another?
yeah, that works.
I am not comfortable again today, in solidarity I guess,
rather than from necessity.
sure, I’m in.
I type lol in response to something funny.
I’m not even smiling.
what am I doing?
I feel dizzy when I stand up, my muscles aching.
I drag myself across town towards the possibility of a cigarette.
my lungs can’t take much more at this point, but I don’t want to be hungry right now.
and if I close my eyes, I will keep pouring over my dream. not a sad or scary dream, yet a lost love that might have been. she acts awkward to me at a bonfire on the beach. And that was all.
it seems realistic.
which would make me cry if I thought about it too long.
so I jump out of my sleepy haze before I can, onto the street, on my board, slamming my foot on the pavement in long swells to carve away from my current thought pattern. i pass an intersection without checking both ways. I trust that would be the reality of our next meeting (if there ever is one), I dream us into awkwardness, instead of the needlessly romantic and unreal fantasies that my waking brain prefers.
she presses her chest and arms against mine into a dip in a wall, browsing around for onlookers, then, finding nobody, she turns her gaze to me, through my eyes, and into my soul. her arms fold at the elbow so that she can run her arms over my ribs.
oh, my ribs are showing. I haven’t eaten well in months. in solidarity, I guess. or lack of sympathy for myself. an acceptance of being uncomfortable… I open my eyes, and my mental picture of her evaporates.
I don’t waste my time on these thoughts. as in, they are not a waste of time. my chest burns even as I convince my self of their invalidity. I know how unlikely they are, given my history. I don’t write OUR history, because we don’t have one. her story probably has little or nothing to do with me. I am not. at least to her. I think.
and yet that time thinking of her is not wasted, I seek this feeling over all others. it is what keeps my fire burning, and that tantalizing thought (or possibility) makes me jump from danger, when I would otherwise let myself be stricken by it. that passion keeps my core warm, and keeps me feeding fuel to the flesh vehicle I inhabit.
I would not do myself harm, yet in this mood I would not go far out of my way to avoid it. what’s the difference? my body is usually sore from lack of nutrition, and I am rarely touched. I’m miles from where I started, yet nowhere. Breathe. I’m okay. I let my wheels find the easiest downhill and my thoughts fold into my body’s weaving motion. Then I see a pretty girl on the street. my troubles are gone for a moment. attempting to show off a bit, I slam hard onto the pavement. oofh. that’s reality for you. I get a cigarette from an onlooker, gotta get to the park, and get okay. off I go. I walk much farther than it seems I could have possibly come while cruising downhill through my mind.
I trudge uphill. ages pass, and I lose track of time. whatever, I tell my aches, “tough shit, we’re going.” and through city blocks that stretch, as an endless desert may expand out, horizontally, halucinogenically, in some Lovecraftian horror, until I arrive, parched.
I assume a water source. Then assure it.
at this sanctuary, a normal city park, I try to explain to a friend (who is consoling me, though not by trade), sometimes wiping quiet tears from my face. I’ve promised myself the counter cultural relief of showing grief in public. yet, under the condition that it does not interupt my vision, and does not make a sound. A young white man. I really can’t complain. so I don’t. I store it up inside, and it would rot my core. instead, I’ve decided to let it out where I can. and take anonymity whenever possible. Although, it’s not exactly a choice in the end.
I think she makes good choices in life, and I let my understanding of who she is, animate my actions and words, in the hopes that I will be able to make those types of choices too.
under such (unconscious) scrutiny of her personality, she starts to appear in my behavior. I emulate her, perhaps on accident, or in a moment I’ll be struck with a vision of her facial expression on my face. and I let myself be her. such grace and elegance in her long strides, and such hope in her brow. As if anything can be worked out in the end. that’s me walking, and I get a bit of a kick knowing it’s just how she does it.
I may not see this woman ever again. and that may be her loss, as well as mine. but the knowing smile i borrow from her is the best Ive got for now, and that’ll have to do.