(no subject)
the field hadn't changed. he stepped off the sidewalk and wandered indirectly but inevitably over to the flagpole planted on the little hill in the corner nearest the trees. he'd sat there hundreds of times, having long conversations with people he'd later come to despise, or stammering awkwardly in attempts to avoid the regret of unspoken truths and instead confronting the embarassment of misjudged glances. he was an adult now, his eyes proved that, and his lonely presence drew conspicuous glances from the children now tossing balls and and tanning on their backs, each thinking themselves the exception to all the bullshit and futility. he returned their stares, and, never one to trust the retrospective lens, thinking it to be as deceiving as first impressions, he did his best to let unadulterated memory seep through his fingers in the grass. afterwards, after driving away, and giving up on remembering forgotten names, and trying to find some order in it all and what it made him, he wondered why.