Edits: made this piece WAY less melodramatic, added 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.
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), awkwardness, not 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, into me. her arms fold at the elbow so she can run her arms just above my ribs.
I open my eyes, and my mental picture of her evaporates, slamming hard onto the pavement in front of a pretty girl on the street. oofh.
I don’t waste my time on thoughts. as in, they are not a waste of my 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 weren’t really, ever. she had little or nothing to do with me, or rather I am not. at least to her. I think.
I seek to describe a feeling, one I seek over all others. it is what keeps me, a tantalizing thought (or possibility) that makes me jump from danger. I would otherwise let myself be stricken by it. A passion keeps that my core warm, my furnace fueled.
In this mood I wouldn’t go too far out of my way to avoid such anguish. what’s the difference? my body is usually sore from lack of nutrition. I’m miles from where I started, yet nowhere. Wait. Breathe.
Okay. I let my wheels find the easiest downhill and my thoughts fold into my body’s weaving motion.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 travelled, cruising downhill in 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 decided to let it out anywhere. but take anonymity whenever possible. Although, it’s not exactly a choice in the end… It’s okay. I think.
She makes good choices in life, so I let my understanding of who she may be, animate my actions and words, in the hopes that I will be able to choose wisely as well.
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. She has such grace and elegance, long strides and hope in her brow. when she isn’t furious.
Anything can be worked out in the end. that’s me walking uphill all the way home. I stop to chuckle. I may not see this woman, and that may be her loss, as well as mine. but that particular knowing smile I seem to be able to borrow from her is all I’ve got of her, and for now that’ll have to be enough.