I am not one of you.
I thumb my keys as I walk to my car.
Her blonde hair falls across her forehead, down her shoulders.
I am not one of you. I am isolated. I am reserved: self-sustaining.
There is always more than meets your eye. Life is a dance, after all, a charade, an act; and I am the lone protagonist.
Don’t expect to be disappointed. Remember that it’s all a play.
We have nothing in common. No memories. The past exists only in the present. Recreate it for yourself. You’ll see it’s as bad or as good as you’d like to remember it. Or not at all, which is I how prefer to exist: adaptable, with expectations suspended.
I walk through the streets. The scent of oil hangs in the air. A motorcycle is parked. Clubman handlebars. The helmet hangs from the seat. Shiny and new.
Suddenly I hear a buzzing melody, a song, and I catch the stream with my senses; a string duet, a cello and violin, is serenading the streets with its mellifluous movements. The passion pulses through these string artists: their mannerisms, strict and controlled, heartfelt and exact. The violinist’s face is blissful, flickering with the occasional exertion of effort: escaping, but only momentarily visible.
I stand across the street, away from the crowd that had formed. I lean against a bent tree, arms crossed, and listen. My gaze turns to trance, and soon worlds unfold. Scents emerge. Laughter erupts from the background. The bars are busy. The chimes from the ice cream shop ring with every visitor that passes through its flapping doors.
I sit in the theater, alone. At least for a good 20 minutes. No phone. No noise. Alone.
I observe this cavernous cultural artifact. It’s long, hollow corridor, its high walls. Above me giant, circular, metallic vents are spaced evenly among the checkered ceiling tiles that extend along the length of the theater. Only a few lights are on. I can hear the film operator changing reels, adjusting audio, turning nobs.
The movie is moving.
Beautiful woman, Brit is.
There is nothing in common with you and I. That is my reaction to a world, an all consuming world. A world that consumes not only things, but people, personalities, character, whole boat-loads of individualism.
I hate to break it to everyone, but there is no such thing as individualism if you’re doing what everyone else is doing. Ah. I suppose that means: having your own visions of the world. Let’s not be too free with our secrets. Let us keep some dreams to ourselves, lest someone treads on them. We need to cherish ourselves, our imaginative fantasies like they’re the last flame of the human spirit, the last and final torches that have been past down throughout the ages. We need to keep these lit, else the human race becomes a caliginous ink stain on time, a blob, a gelatinous, amorphous blob, like our brains. Then our hearts.
Let me rule my life.
You are disgusting: copy.
You smile, but you do not know me. I know those who know themselves. Who are you? Do you have thoughts? Opinions? Authentically generated and created impressions of the world? Do tell. I don’t even mind if they can’t be articulated with words. I want feeling. Tell me how you feel, by feeling. And let me bask in the honesty, such a refreshing bath. Take me where you are, how you are, with feeling.
Don’t stop; keep it up.
Memories. Noises. Lights pass, of varying intensity and hue; cars roll. I can see through them, through the windshield, and right out the back. And I can make out the occasional face among the sea of silhouettes.
Oh, how I love the happy eyes. They catch mine. I probe. They smile. I greet them with emotion. They melt. And we merge.