(no subject)
"We are nothing more than your favorite damage. We are your favorite tarnish to correct. We are the flaws that stand out in your mind and cause your disgruntled state. We are the imperfections that sleep so sound at night when we cause your pathetic lack of sleep. We are golden, though. We are that one in a million that just so happened to know hundreds more like us. We scare you because we know what we want when your muddled mind can't comprehend five minutes from now. We are better than you; we are what your irresponsible children model themselves after. We're not egotistical; we simply state the truth that's in front of your lying face, and you're just too stubborn to admit it. We are mean, we are arrogant, we are the cruellest form of perfection you'll ever stumble across. In the words of a genius: they call kids like us vicious and carved out of stone."
Anthony spoke like he was a content sinner, and our ears and hearts were the confessional and church. His words were so exquisite that they made the Catholics kiss your crosses and beg for forgiveness. Pete Wentz, screaming about the after life, was the hymns that haunted our minds. The candles, now replaced with cheap cigarettes. Clasped hands of the praying audience, filled by lulling heads on warm shoulders. Never was I one for incoherence, but he required unrequested silence. His voice was the loud scratch of ladies’ high heels against the chapel floor. The green carpet we sat upon was the same shade of his eyes; the stains and burn spots were the golden flecks around his dark pupil. He had this gift of understanding things that no one around had ever even stopped to recognize. Anthony always had an opinion whenever one was necessary; and never did he keep it to himself.
He always sat with his legs crossed, and a cigarette protruding from his bow shaped lips like a permanence. We had the same features. The same feathery brown hair that hung in soft waves always. The same sharp cheekbones, and identical, large shaped eyes. He’d talk of travels and adventures that could fill a novel within the first ten minutes. He’d talk of people he had encountered with such detail, but they were so vague, and yet, I could imagine their faces as if it was a picture. There were the Indie kids, with smoke stained finger tips, and raspy voices that sang harshly from soft lips. There were the eclectic ones, with odd colored hair, bright eyes, and atrocious, non-matching articles of clothing. Then, there were the girls who wore frilly hair clips and cried to Brand New, and the boys who shook to hardcore music and had kohl lined eyes. Each one was different, but the same. Each strived for a different, unique aura, persona, and each went out of their way to receive it.
“In the end, being eccentric is the new trend,” Anthony said.
It's a work in progress.
The most important flaw is that I'm trying so damn hard, and nothing is tapping its way onto this screen.
Anthony spoke like he was a content sinner, and our ears and hearts were the confessional and church. His words were so exquisite that they made the Catholics kiss your crosses and beg for forgiveness. Pete Wentz, screaming about the after life, was the hymns that haunted our minds. The candles, now replaced with cheap cigarettes. Clasped hands of the praying audience, filled by lulling heads on warm shoulders. Never was I one for incoherence, but he required unrequested silence. His voice was the loud scratch of ladies’ high heels against the chapel floor. The green carpet we sat upon was the same shade of his eyes; the stains and burn spots were the golden flecks around his dark pupil. He had this gift of understanding things that no one around had ever even stopped to recognize. Anthony always had an opinion whenever one was necessary; and never did he keep it to himself.
He always sat with his legs crossed, and a cigarette protruding from his bow shaped lips like a permanence. We had the same features. The same feathery brown hair that hung in soft waves always. The same sharp cheekbones, and identical, large shaped eyes. He’d talk of travels and adventures that could fill a novel within the first ten minutes. He’d talk of people he had encountered with such detail, but they were so vague, and yet, I could imagine their faces as if it was a picture. There were the Indie kids, with smoke stained finger tips, and raspy voices that sang harshly from soft lips. There were the eclectic ones, with odd colored hair, bright eyes, and atrocious, non-matching articles of clothing. Then, there were the girls who wore frilly hair clips and cried to Brand New, and the boys who shook to hardcore music and had kohl lined eyes. Each one was different, but the same. Each strived for a different, unique aura, persona, and each went out of their way to receive it.
“In the end, being eccentric is the new trend,” Anthony said.
It's a work in progress.
The most important flaw is that I'm trying so damn hard, and nothing is tapping its way onto this screen.