aosid's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- - a forest of sapling sentences are caught in my fingers, but i feel them in my throat, behind my eyes two figures stare at the dash. there are patches where the dust is missing - two heels of a whimsical passenger and four fingers of a sentimental driver. the boy on the right is unusually stoic, though his even tone betrays a particularly foul mood. his eyes burn through the molded plastic at an unknown bed with that particular possessive hopelessness. he considers falling apart but has not had enough to drink. he exhausts some hidden pocket of strength with a slight turn of the head and a flat question. "so are you over it?" the boy on the left turns towards the window, seems to examine the far corner of his glasses (a nervous tick that he despised in an old lover then adopted). he has been cheerful this night, but this too betrays the nihilism he falls into when overwhelmed. he clears both manic grin and frightening detachment with a deep honest breath. "it's nice to think that, but it's always different when she's there." the two nod, sigh heavily in tandem like they have for the year since discovering their bond. the engine starts with an oblivious loud shudder. a million bits of silk on the air hold words back, keep their heads down, eyes closed he collects things sometimes, but they have to be things that are of no value to anyone else. his favorite are inside jokes, especially the ones he shared with people he has lost along the way. it is not clear how he keeps the museum running when he is the only patron. i want to write like i used to, or at least well enough to live up to how i imagine i wrote. but i don't know if i ever knew how so i'm just trying to write anything you clearly think you are out of place as you walk past the bouncer. you are so convinced of it that you fail to open the door twice before cracking it enough to slip in sideways. you forget to be uneasy and hold your shoulders correctly for a second, then realize that you need to cower until you've scanned the crowd for all faces (wanted and unwanted). the room appears to be safe, so you push into a stool without bothering anyone. you put on the proper gregarious attitude long enough to order a drink, then you slink outside. you light a cigarette because it is the easiest way to disappear. you ask yourself why you came here. but as you half-run away, all disappointment and shame, you are compelled to pay attention by some unexplainable prescience. and so you see a familiar silhouette stumbling merrily through the alley. your quiet greeting goes unnoticed, but your bland placeholder grin has turned genuine without your consent. sometimes i can convince myself that it means something, throwing this trash into the night. like maybe if i can dress my weird truncated day up right then it will suddenly become interesting. sometimes i even think i do it because i want to be the sort of writer who can dress things up that way. but in the end, i just want to be interesting. i want to interest someone. i want to interest you but instead i pile things up back here because i'm terrified that i'll pester you away completely and i won't have any more nights like this one 3:27 a.m. - 2011-11-07 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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