(no subject)
At the party, Richard could only think of the sickness. These people, these clothes, these behaviors and their scene. He couldn't play their game and so he sat, defensive and critical, thinking of who he was glad he wasn’t. If someone asked him his name, the loud noise and conditioned reflexes would misinterpret the gesture, and he would say “these kinds of parties suck, you never get to talk to anyone.” He’d tell you about how he likes early punk, the french new wave, and ornette coleman but he knows if he ever met a person to whom such confessions could be meaningful they’d call his bluff. When he imagines his funeral he feels hollow. Not because people wouldn’t care - memories of a few of kind eyes hadn’t been forgotten- but because his image of them would be ruined as someone who was duped. Hes afraid the truth is that he just wishes he could be anyone.
And in the morning it’s all gone. The sober self loathing, the conscious sadness, all forgotten by the sunshine’s optimism. And he walks on, swearing on his own zeitgeist far away from anything that’s going on around him. He is above it. He remembers riding in the car with his mother when he was young, watching other vehicles through the side window. She would accelerate, and he suddenly they were beyond, leaving the others in a depression of over. If the neighboring car took an exit, slowly it would fall away into the obsolete. The day Richard stopped covering his eyes to hide, he realized that the other car would see him fall away, forgotten.
In the streets, on the subway, up the stairs. Richard still plays the same game, wondering how far he has gone, fearing how many laps he is behind.
And in the morning it’s all gone. The sober self loathing, the conscious sadness, all forgotten by the sunshine’s optimism. And he walks on, swearing on his own zeitgeist far away from anything that’s going on around him. He is above it. He remembers riding in the car with his mother when he was young, watching other vehicles through the side window. She would accelerate, and he suddenly they were beyond, leaving the others in a depression of over. If the neighboring car took an exit, slowly it would fall away into the obsolete. The day Richard stopped covering his eyes to hide, he realized that the other car would see him fall away, forgotten.
In the streets, on the subway, up the stairs. Richard still plays the same game, wondering how far he has gone, fearing how many laps he is behind.