All that aside, it doesn't make sense anymore. I've wandered in and out of conscience for so long that all these fragments of ideas are just scattered everywhere, floating around me like pixels of knowledge, wanting to assemble, but to much is missing to complete any sort of answer. So the page is left blank in front of me. Blank, unhindered, waiting...waiting for me. It still waits.
'I'll get all my work and I'll chain myself to the chair with that old bike lock, and I'll throw the key out of reach, I'll have no choice but to finish the work until Lush comes over and unties me' I mouth to myself. I know that my stiff lips aren't readable, not that anyone looks at me anyway. Ah Lush, she's like heroin to me, she really is. The first time with her, I felt sick, my body shook, and I lied helpless on my back, waiting for something to come along, just like the simile I've dubbed her with. Heroin. Coquet is another story, she's a sickly alchohol who consumes the liver of my mind. Waging all out wars with my lips on her shoulder and her foot on my neck. She's a pair of handcuffs I don't need. On some days she even tasted of Jack Daniels, oh the irony.
"You okay?" a voice breaks my inner monologue and I look up. It's the good teacher. I nod my head and open my mouth "Yeah" I say weakly, my voice hoarse from being quiet for so long. Without another word from me, the class continued on without me until that buzzard of a bell rang. This is when I was free to do what I wanted, but still chained to the other school building. I took my music classes at the regular high school, but I went to a smaller alternative school just about a mile up the road. I walked every day between classes, luckily my music class was the only one I had at the highschool.
The trek back didn't plague me at all, except the worms...worms half dried up on the sidewalk from the rain the previous day. Mental monologues were often started by these poetic images, yet I never gave charity to move the worms to the grass. They earned their place, and that was in my ramblings.
I pass by the bus stops, and the pizza place, and the many banks that lurk like a tumor to our small town community. A neon white community that seems to have lost their roots and their diversity. Republicans. The bus stop is intriguing though, there are worn souls there. Ethnically different people then the majority, though physically fine, their faces are distorted by their experiences and pains. They're stranded here as outcasts for the most part. And as they board the collective pool of the bus, they join the unseen masses of the suffering. I just love this town.
Silent obscenities escape my mouth when the doors to the school building open by my own hand. The halls are barren of life, both literally and from an artist point of view. Dark colors are highlighted by a lack of light, while even darker colors loom in the corners. It's noir-tastic. So I go into the kitchen, the only bright and lively room in the building. It's only about twenty feet by twenty feet, perhaps if you were to put several queen size beds together then you'd get the dimensions better. A black board with chalk sits on a wall, two walls are occupied by cabinets, stoves, fridges, and countertops.
The scouts are there, all three of them, the Red, the Pink, and the Black, plotting their various little schemes to help keep them occupied through the week. I often joke about each of them being only one third of a person, and they all create a collective whole, but it's only in good fun. Good clean fun. Call it what you want, people like them keep me sane.
Black smiles at me and waves, like always. I guess gestures like these really are what keep me going. I look at the black board, some trivial question is written on there, I probably won't even give it a second glance. My preperations seem almost second nature now. Take out mac&cheese, add water, and set microwave with Mac&Cheese in it. Then wait. Silence has been waiting for me, and now takes me into its grasp, and I lie calm on its chest, breathing in its scent and silently swearing at it.
And off we go into never land once again...
I reach into my pocket, in it is my cell phone. It's an older model, with an almost demonic looking dark blue and black butterfly on it. A copyrighted angel of death that looms over my marvel of modern age technology...bullcrap...it doesn't deserve that kind of artistic soliloquy, the reason I bring it out does though. I flip it open, and to no surprise, there aren't any messages or missed calls. Yet, the dim hope that she would waywardly call in the middle of the day vexes me, leading me to believe I'm becoming even more obsessed with Lush. I go to the call history and look through the lists. Her number is still there, I look at the info.
Lush Tue Apr 22, 10:02pm 1hr 26m 05s.
Is all it says, and through all those minutes, we whimpered sweet obscenities to each other, just trying to build each other up for something we couldn't have. It was torture, but sincere torture at that. That, I could deal with. It was not hearing from her since then that I couldn't, for today was the 24th, and I would see her again either way.
Beep. Beep. Beep. My meal was ready, and I found it hard to believe that that inner soliloquy only took 3 minutes. Ah, the suffering of being a three minute man.
For some reason, microwavable Mac&Cheese makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Perhaps because my grandmother used to make real Mac&Cheese for me when I was young, but youth like that has long since come and gone, and all that's sacred comes in youth. I'm about as sacred as 'Car Care for Dummies'. Lessons learned, crap delt with, didn't matter much anyway anymore. Grandma...take me home.
I stand, blank faced, stirring the ingredients of my meal together. Indecent thoughts swirling in my head about Lush and Coquet. I wonder, I really do, about when I'll stop being myself, and just become a posession, a toy, a plaything for either Lush or Coquet...no, I'm wondering when I'll lower myself to that level, perhaps when she draws her boys more like me again, maybe that'll be the day.
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