Bruno Smith
11-10-2013, 04:22 AM
Emotions, as if they ever come one at a time, have filled me and threaten to capture reason. I can feel my lungs ballooning to capacity. There is the cement of surprise in my muscles and bones binding me tight and if and when I move it will be a sudden jerk to break away from my own chains. My eyes are aimed straight at the cause of my peril. She is at the open door and has taken her first step to leave. Still looking right into my eyes, the light that I thought was love is gone from her entire face, she is an animal in defensive retreat. Beyond her is the new man I only just learned about when she bothered to tell me she was leaving because she had met him and he treated her much better than I and what is it worth remembering the words for anyway? They were all just lies because the truth is she had spent my money and was bored with me long ago and only stayed until the next best ride came along she has guts and gall to have him pick her up here!
But the anger has been in me already and this moment it is only redirected at her new victim. I'm angry at him now but he is only a frame around her and she is the subject, the text, the artwork which offends me, the garbage I once held and now he will and I'll feel sorry for him in another moment or two. But not at this moment. I hate him as cold as the killing rain as it freezes on my skin when the cold north wind steals my heat and spreads it thin until extinct. Just like she spread me thin! All these feelings and thoughts fly by this moment and I won't be aware of any of them. Well, not most of them.
I'll describe to the court of judgement just how I felt and it will be like the color styling of a babe with a crayon. Capturing nothing of this moment. So little of the real that it might as well be unreal. You just don't get to remember this moment for long or much at all. Too much to store away.
This beautiful agony! Multitudes of artist's and writer's collections of tragedies on canvas and sheepskin in paint and word. This horrible instant when life is on the edge and lived in adrenalin, emotion, and my senses are such that I could pluck the wing from the gnat flying behind me. I can hear him I'm so alive. I can feel the wake of air as he flies. I can smell him and I think I can sense him in ways I don't understand because these moments are when I am most alive. Everything about me I process in speeds such as that of a Photron camera analyzing the curve of a well chosen baseball pitch! I am the peak of the moment before the lighting when I can step away and aim it at the best target! And instinct says, "Do something!" And I am still frozen in one place. A statue of myself, but this mental paralysis is about to end!
Then I notice in her dark eyes the very reflection of myself and I am standing motionless with mouth open and frankly I look like an idiot. There she is stunning in her clothes of deceit, greed and lies. And here I stand after the bus hit me and I forgot to fall down! I look just as stupid as her new man who is waving an invisible sign at me, "Don't get mad at me! I'm scared of her too!". We both look stupid and in this moment I hope someday she meets a smart man who will "Yahtzee", more often than she and beat her down and steal the plot right out of her writer's discretion story of a life! Let her be unpleasantly surprised for a change!
Oh, now wouldn't that be nice! But he isn't the man to do it because she picks her victims from the weakest in the herd, just like I was.
And the moment is gone curtain drawn the second the door slams shut and I hear someone shouting, "Just go then!" It can't be me because I know she did and why would I shout something like that when I saw it just happen?
The moment is gone and now if you ask me I'll just grunt and say, "The _____ left me."
end. Bruno Smith...story one.
But the anger has been in me already and this moment it is only redirected at her new victim. I'm angry at him now but he is only a frame around her and she is the subject, the text, the artwork which offends me, the garbage I once held and now he will and I'll feel sorry for him in another moment or two. But not at this moment. I hate him as cold as the killing rain as it freezes on my skin when the cold north wind steals my heat and spreads it thin until extinct. Just like she spread me thin! All these feelings and thoughts fly by this moment and I won't be aware of any of them. Well, not most of them.
I'll describe to the court of judgement just how I felt and it will be like the color styling of a babe with a crayon. Capturing nothing of this moment. So little of the real that it might as well be unreal. You just don't get to remember this moment for long or much at all. Too much to store away.
This beautiful agony! Multitudes of artist's and writer's collections of tragedies on canvas and sheepskin in paint and word. This horrible instant when life is on the edge and lived in adrenalin, emotion, and my senses are such that I could pluck the wing from the gnat flying behind me. I can hear him I'm so alive. I can feel the wake of air as he flies. I can smell him and I think I can sense him in ways I don't understand because these moments are when I am most alive. Everything about me I process in speeds such as that of a Photron camera analyzing the curve of a well chosen baseball pitch! I am the peak of the moment before the lighting when I can step away and aim it at the best target! And instinct says, "Do something!" And I am still frozen in one place. A statue of myself, but this mental paralysis is about to end!
Then I notice in her dark eyes the very reflection of myself and I am standing motionless with mouth open and frankly I look like an idiot. There she is stunning in her clothes of deceit, greed and lies. And here I stand after the bus hit me and I forgot to fall down! I look just as stupid as her new man who is waving an invisible sign at me, "Don't get mad at me! I'm scared of her too!". We both look stupid and in this moment I hope someday she meets a smart man who will "Yahtzee", more often than she and beat her down and steal the plot right out of her writer's discretion story of a life! Let her be unpleasantly surprised for a change!
Oh, now wouldn't that be nice! But he isn't the man to do it because she picks her victims from the weakest in the herd, just like I was.
And the moment is gone curtain drawn the second the door slams shut and I hear someone shouting, "Just go then!" It can't be me because I know she did and why would I shout something like that when I saw it just happen?
The moment is gone and now if you ask me I'll just grunt and say, "The _____ left me."
end. Bruno Smith...story one.