Chai is life
by LunarBlue
(460 views) - 8/20/05
(recorded 8/20/05 @ 8:02:50 PM)
The night felt oddly familiar. A transient entity, more vividly haunting by a sense of ephemeral peace; as if there was a tension in the souls of the sane and insane alike. Walking down the street in scattered uniformity, a flood of people are pouring out wearing nothing but chiseled smiles and vividly revealing clothes, uniforms for the school of freedom and sexual exploit. But even that can’t settle my nerves.
The moon is rising over the black expanse of high-rise trees, a red Cyclopsian disk, hauntingly beautiful with its size and presence. Under the influence of this sphere, a shiver bolts through me, telling me that tonight I could pass through walls and see all the secrets people are desperately keen to conceal. It feels like someone could do the same to me.
Orwell is riding on my back, in a green satchel backpack and I hate him. I hate the cold reality of society creeping through my mind as my emotions finally are filled with satiation due to the soft waves of smoke reaching my nostrils in this damp coffee house on Sheldon St. I keep expecting morning to reach here any minute and send me back into my reveries of starry-eyed girls and the tranquil memories of lying naked in the arms of sheets and under the skin of someone whom you hardly can force yourself to not love.
I slide my glasses out of the well of my collar and flip open their arms, raise it gently to the beak of my nose and through the sudden shift between obscurity and certainty I see the crowd ebb and flow, grinding against one another without leaving their seats. It’s really a contest of wills and the boys will try their limited testosterone fueled brainpower to seduce the much more cunning gender.
Chortling at the fain attempts of finding comfort in the arms of someone else during the humid oppression of mid-August nights, I raise my chai tea to my mouth and gulp down the drink reminiscent of the scents and tastes of Christmas. My leg beating to the drums echoing through the speaker council over the café counter, occasionally the rhythm is interrupted by the smacking of a thin wooden screen door slamming with the entrance of more eccentric patrons.
My eyes and thoughts shift to the man-being calmly reading a pamphlet beyond the confines of the counter and sweat beads on my head: “there’s something comforting about being with complete strangers when my mind is living outside the comforts of my body,” I whisper inwardly in my head.
My drink is running low and I’m slightly bored with thinking of all the positive wonders of this mythical age we live in. It seems absurd to watch people part at the end of a life, an affair or a friendship. It seems absurd to know I walked out of something that was important to me out of spite. Yet, with calculating certainty, I feel as if I couldn’t care if the world came crashing down on me, but if someone were to steal a look from me or whisper an intimate detail into my perked ears I would suddenly dissolve into a Beckian folksong (if my leg so eagerly dissolved, then the rest of me won’t be mounting a legendary resistance.)
The door smacks again. A girl in her early twenties walks coolly into the room accompanied by an indistinct female friend. I don’t really care, there isn’t anything peculiar about her, just a taunting sense of the possibilities and secrets that a night like this could reveal. And the sweat just continues to join and I feel like I’m secreting my secret thoughts and tendencies into the dewy-damp night air. But… no. No hero rising up tonight to conduct my lascivious symphony of hollow words and whispers. Just a normal jerk, watching a crowd flowing into infinity, awaiting the rains of insanity and smoking life away in stiletto heels.
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