secret7
09-09-2010, 04:41 PM
It can’t really be considered as abandon if the idea had already been considered, seeping into the imagination and forcing realization upon itself.
Another drink. Yes. The left over flakes of ice are crawling languorously back down the drains and the gutters; there is no chance of settling here, and the frost will have turned into a mild mulch of lost potential by the morning. Hopping from the car into the hallway of the pub, it strikes me that daydreams and fantasies might soon be the only version of going out I have left. Even as I turn my attention to the potential of a night out, the mobile in my bag prevents the illusion of freedom from taking too strong a hold. I squirm nervously under the weight of social incompetence; another drink, yes.
I let my eyes linger across a particular face from the past and my fingers twitch impatiently, searching for the textures of yet another self fulfilling prophesy. It’s not enough. My tongue laps absently across my lips. I shift my roll up to the other hand.
If you’ve watched responsibilities dawning, responsibilities you’ve delivered yourself into, it seems so mundane to linger over the past. What really hurts is the rising sense of certainty that nothing has actually changed much since those early botched decisions of your youth except the cast, as the costumes grow too tight... I always took the easy option to avoid any confusion.
There was desire, yes, but no control. He was too mouthy, cocky, difficult to politely set aside. How could I risk attaching myself to anyone who might not offer me the future I had accepted as inevitable? Now, I don’t ignore how crushingly self policing I have been. I’m terrified. I feel my own stupidity, I feel myself, fond, rolling like the empty batteries in the remote control.
The man’s eyes laugh, letch, demand; I feel my fettered self flinch.
Later, outside, I am transparent, seeping desperation in a pool of oily rainbows at my feet. I suppose there are no easy answers these days; even so suddenly a tide of unformed questions reaches out warmly through my open mouth. I sigh, submerge and gasp at the momentary lapse. I call myself to attention. I squirm and wriggle against myself.
Another day, some music on the telly will call the whole, jumbled collection of memories back to mind; my body will be as clean and ordered as supermarket lines. It’s Christmastime, the little boy runs out into the snow to find his friend has melted. He pulls a blue scarf from his pocket and flinches at the sky.
Another drink. Yes. The left over flakes of ice are crawling languorously back down the drains and the gutters; there is no chance of settling here, and the frost will have turned into a mild mulch of lost potential by the morning. Hopping from the car into the hallway of the pub, it strikes me that daydreams and fantasies might soon be the only version of going out I have left. Even as I turn my attention to the potential of a night out, the mobile in my bag prevents the illusion of freedom from taking too strong a hold. I squirm nervously under the weight of social incompetence; another drink, yes.
I let my eyes linger across a particular face from the past and my fingers twitch impatiently, searching for the textures of yet another self fulfilling prophesy. It’s not enough. My tongue laps absently across my lips. I shift my roll up to the other hand.
If you’ve watched responsibilities dawning, responsibilities you’ve delivered yourself into, it seems so mundane to linger over the past. What really hurts is the rising sense of certainty that nothing has actually changed much since those early botched decisions of your youth except the cast, as the costumes grow too tight... I always took the easy option to avoid any confusion.
There was desire, yes, but no control. He was too mouthy, cocky, difficult to politely set aside. How could I risk attaching myself to anyone who might not offer me the future I had accepted as inevitable? Now, I don’t ignore how crushingly self policing I have been. I’m terrified. I feel my own stupidity, I feel myself, fond, rolling like the empty batteries in the remote control.
The man’s eyes laugh, letch, demand; I feel my fettered self flinch.
Later, outside, I am transparent, seeping desperation in a pool of oily rainbows at my feet. I suppose there are no easy answers these days; even so suddenly a tide of unformed questions reaches out warmly through my open mouth. I sigh, submerge and gasp at the momentary lapse. I call myself to attention. I squirm and wriggle against myself.
Another day, some music on the telly will call the whole, jumbled collection of memories back to mind; my body will be as clean and ordered as supermarket lines. It’s Christmastime, the little boy runs out into the snow to find his friend has melted. He pulls a blue scarf from his pocket and flinches at the sky.