I'm scared of the glow of city lights.
by LunarBlue
(530 views) - 8/14/05
(recorded 8/14/05 @ 8:25:26 PM)
“I can see a man holding a rifle, tragic and poignant in the rain, as if he’s melted into the world a few decades ago. Somewhere out there, she’s looking for him and a car races for her funeral. He killed her, I think…” Sean quietly trailed off.
He was talking to a wall, just an unoriginal fixture, gray of concrete and rainbowed from the constant doodlings of his weary mind. He’d paint murals of strangers he’d crossed on the subway into and out of his mind.
It’d been like that for years, the constant craving to be with a semblance of sanity and the constant escape of meaningless dribble from the curves of his lips. And the weary anxiety produced by the melancholy disposition of all those souls who are so needlessly separated from their body.
Expecting an answer, he stared ruefully at the obstinate wall. Sometimes it did talk back, not in jest, but full of warmth and appreciation for his dramatic situation. Most days he just stared lividly at the wall before he broke into a ditty little dance number, for everyone in the vicinity to enjoy and appreciate.
The music wasn’t working this evening, around the horrid hour of winter where the sun is setting into a new oblivion and there seems to be the chaotic hum of frustration as the homeless suffused through the corridors of the city, looking for a shelter from the demons inside their heads and the lack of love surrounding the world.
Oddly, rain forecast for the evening and it was the eve before valentines day, that wretched day where men scatter through the world searching for chocolate and flowers to placate their fickle gods or to find a date to maintain the appearance of a successful , if unpleasant, love life.
As the raindrops began gathering outside his small apartment’s window, his chicken flavored ramen catastrophe, owing to his experimentation with the effects of boiled milk and strange green lizard meats, a concoction vaguely reminiscent of actual chicken noodle soup.
His soup coming to an eerie, white-cream boil, he reaches habitually for the black handle of the small, faded olive-green pot and walks with his small metal spoon and scalded hand to pour the contents into bowl and cracker arrangement on the chipped-plastic table in the seat facing the window, looking out unto the neon glow of Showgirls building.
“What about adding a sofa or a purple arm chair in the case that guests would call? I mean, it could be important to the success of my life to have such an assortment ready for the most peculiar and demanding of tastes.”
Pondering the situation, the wall remained mute, concentrating on the event of a guest appearing at the house of such a depraved louse and lunatic, especially to spend time enough to take a seat on such on odd looking recliner.
“Do you think words have a taste?” Sean ventured to ask.
“What do you mean, do they have a peculiar taste on the speaker on the recipient of a comment or word?”
“I just mean do you think that the thoughts you have relating to a word could have a flavor like cinnamon or rotting milk. If they did, would a person utter a word more often because it appeals to the particular person’s palate? Because I cannot fathom why we need to communicate in such methods sometimes, why swear at someone when angry or be sweet and enticing to someone we have an attraction to? It seems superficial.”
“Obviously a means of communication is essential to successfully assimilating into society. So, your vernacular is dependant on the type of society you are attempting to merge with. Why?”
“No reason. I just cannot understand why I talk to you when you hardly respond. I can’t suppose you are an actual entity, I’m not that depraved, but if I had to make an assumption, you’re just reflecting my ego in the form of an imaginary friend.”
“Reading psychology again?”
At this the conversation grew once again quiet, the rain began gathering force outside and launching an assault on the vagabonds roaming the winding concrete paths and the taciturn windows protecting the vagabonds who had managed to find a shelter from natural order. A shudder crawled through Sean’s discombobulated brain.
Finishing his meal, he rose shuddering, and sprang to the black door as if expecting a very important specter. But all the ghouls were locked up tonight, dreaming of monsters and nightmares to set free on the world, people to destroy and mayhem to create.
Sean wanted to run through the world screaming for the freedom of chaos and the passionate embrace of tempting vixens. No such luck in years and dreams, always hoping that something might catch hold and shake him into reality, to break the 75 waking hours of his ever-long day and strike up new memories of things that never came to past.
Dreaming was all he ever could do. Shaking himself, he turned the bronze door handle and passed into the dimly lit threshold of the fourth floor lobby. Then creeping down the flights of stairs, glancing fearfully at the trespasses of misanthropic shadows and clutching the railing when some particular fiend entered his mind. He couldn’t shake the tortures of not knowing, reaching the first floor and the glimmer of city lights penetrating through thin walls and glass revolving doors, his eyes too accustomed to the shadows painfully aware that exiting was an option for men not so dreadfully afraid of chess matches and the conversations between lovers on quite turns of park paths and secluded tree house haunts.
His timorous heart beat fleetingly as he entered into his once longed for city, but he was running away from his own sanity and the thoughts he could never secure for more than a flighty moment.
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