Excerpt # 2

Point 0.1

The one with his bag at his feet, in the middle of the busy walkway. Like a man made object, caught on a rock in the middle of a rushing stream. Alien. Unnatural. His tear loaded eyes, always on the edge. But the dam holds, and so he exists in a steady accumulation of tension. Denied release.

The one who rides the train home, glare fixed at a point of relative nowhere. Unfocused in reality. Somewhere safely outside of the otherwise constant influx of potential catalysts for a nervous breakdown. The only places of safety. In between everything.

The one with the dark bloodied split that cascades across his face. And though, painful as it looks, appears no more than a minor scratch, when viewed in the light projected from his deep and obvious shame.

The one who sits awkwardly, squashed into the armrest of an otherwise empty park bench, and only when he dares, looks up towards a woman who sits adjacent to him, moments of longing vaguely seen in between the anxiety of his flickering, restless demeanour.

The one who stands soberly, in the boisterous crowds of that city bar, unnoticed in his melancholy by his back slapping colleagues. Dragging  himself with quiet desperation from moment to moment, with nothing as tools but gritted teeth.

The one with the twisted, ghost like face. Who’s task of bringing the coffee, momentarily masks his disgust at the humans around him, for the judgement that they (I) pour onto him.

The sadness of all these men accumulates like an atmosphere around him, gathering and trailing off in wisps as he moves slowly through the streets and underground systems of his city, evolving each step, changing colour as new qualities fold themselves into the fusion, breed effortlessly, and then slowly dissolve into the background, faded, without vibrance. This is what he comes here for. To gather these untold stories. This tree produces so much fruit, that it is to be expected that the smaller, the more pocked, the deformed and mutilated will drop to no willing mouth, but slowly be trodden into the dirt at the foot of the tree. All that can be done is to breathe in their scent in the moments that they last before the final crush.

These men. Lost. Forgotten. Their similarities even keeping them from one another. Who want’s to stare into a mirror when the reflection is so hard to look back at?

Apart from him.








 

Miserablistbboygothslut Miserablistbboygothslut
31-35, M
1 Response Mar 22, 2009

sorry sir...................er................It's fiction.....<br />
<br />
<br />
..............Please also, If you could, tell me how it would be possible to help all such people in such a place? (Apart from through the maniipulation of the collective consciousness, which is really a metaphysical issue and I'm assuming you mean why don't I get down on my knees and help them with my hands)100s upon 1,000s of these people.....<br />
<br />
....and how do you know I don't actually get down on my knees and try to help them (and fail)?<br />
<br />
How do you know I don't cry my pointless little *** to sleep every night thinking about them?<br />
<br />
most people say hello before they judge me<br />
<br />
Do you always ask such righteous questions?