a book you read in reverse, understanding less as the pages turn
I step through the door into the crickety house, and a wave of hot, sticky air passes over me like nausea. It smells of sweat and alcohol. I think about what you're doing right now and pause in the doorway, but someone behind me pushes me further into this house. The structure should be torn down, or it should collapse, I think to myself. Disgusting. Everyone in here. Everything in here.
I make my way up the stairs into the kitchen. I lean against the dirty cabinets. Why am I even here? I don't even know anyone here, or rather, I know a few. I promised them that I would come. But I don't even really KNOW them. I know things about them, arbitrary facts. Like that's really knowing someone. "No, I don't want a cup," I shout loudly over the music, being snapped back into reality. I don't want to fill myself with dehydrating liquid; I don't want to empty myself of all feeling and thought. I WANT to feel. Why don't they? Do they want to escape their lives, their consciousness every moment of every day? Or just on the weekends?
I look at the food shelf next to me. Ramen noodle packages and a half-eaten loaf of generic white bread. Nothing else but empty space, empty shelves. If the shabbiness of the house hadn't given away that it was a college student's house, this sure as hell did. I think about the malnutrition of the people living here, and I think of the money being wasted on alcohol. The border on the walls in constructed of empty liquor bottles. There must be hundreds of them. The way some people live amazes me. There are dirty dishes everywhere, and the rug by the sink is ripped and tattered. An ugly shade of grey.
I begin to re-escape into my thoughts. I think about what you said. I couldn't say it back to you. I don't really know why. I don't even know if you meant it anyway. Actually, I am beginning to think that I loathe you. Almost as much as I loathe these parties. Almost as much as I loathe this emptiness.
I make my way up the stairs into the kitchen. I lean against the dirty cabinets. Why am I even here? I don't even know anyone here, or rather, I know a few. I promised them that I would come. But I don't even really KNOW them. I know things about them, arbitrary facts. Like that's really knowing someone. "No, I don't want a cup," I shout loudly over the music, being snapped back into reality. I don't want to fill myself with dehydrating liquid; I don't want to empty myself of all feeling and thought. I WANT to feel. Why don't they? Do they want to escape their lives, their consciousness every moment of every day? Or just on the weekends?
I look at the food shelf next to me. Ramen noodle packages and a half-eaten loaf of generic white bread. Nothing else but empty space, empty shelves. If the shabbiness of the house hadn't given away that it was a college student's house, this sure as hell did. I think about the malnutrition of the people living here, and I think of the money being wasted on alcohol. The border on the walls in constructed of empty liquor bottles. There must be hundreds of them. The way some people live amazes me. There are dirty dishes everywhere, and the rug by the sink is ripped and tattered. An ugly shade of grey.
I begin to re-escape into my thoughts. I think about what you said. I couldn't say it back to you. I don't really know why. I don't even know if you meant it anyway. Actually, I am beginning to think that I loathe you. Almost as much as I loathe these parties. Almost as much as I loathe this emptiness.