2015-12-21

haze I

Everything was in a haze. The other day he had gone out with some people he knew and had sat quiet through a lengthy conversation about appartments and landlords and rents before leaving early. All the exclamatory remarks and compliments on low prices and great numbers of square metres, together with exaggerated approval and encouragement in one issue or another across shiny woodboards holding numerous glasses of mediocre beer- it choked him in boredom and loneliness, and reeked of pretense. "This is it- youth," he thought walking down a dark and narrow street, past brick walls and shady entrances, hoping there'd be a train station somewhere in a few dozen metres. The whole world suddenly had a tilt-shift effect to it, everything was so small and unimportant and disgusting. He shuddered. Young people came together and had nothing better to discuss than issues of housing, in the most biedermeier way possible. He found it slightly difficult to breathe and that feeling didn't pass when he entered a train, avoiding everyone's eyes in the neon light, and ducking away into the corner of an almost empty compartment. He wasn't any better though- he was a goddamn coward. He had sat there and stared at his coffee. He hadn't asked anyone to tell about the last book they read and thought was significant, or special. He hadn't suggested to change the topic to what everyone's biggest dream was. He hadn't suggested to change the topic at all, even though he could have. He had just smiled politely when he'd felt addressed and answered a few question. He had practised invisibility and then disappeared completely.

6 comments:

  1. This is more, and this is literally me, run through the press of r63, and perhaps a filter of jadedness. I'm so glad you write; you verbalise feelings so well that it makes me wonder how clear your head must be. It feels like it must be papered with grey, with stacks of books surrounding, filled with all the words you'd need to pull out to describe who you are in every instant. But that's a little dreary, so the creative side must be in an adjoining room, paint dripping down the walls and a song in every corner. But you make both beautiful.

    -A

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. This reads as though you talk about some magical wordsmith fairy and not me, it's lovely. It's also very funny you should say 'this is literally me' because this IS (pretend this is cursive) literally me, the other day. I just chose to he-ify the experience.

      Delete
    2. Aww, whoever said you're not a magical wordsmith fairy? And really, I don't mean to steal your identity--just some of that skill.

      Delete
    3. [blushes violently] if there is a skill, then only a massive talent for knocking said 'clear' head, metaphorically speaking. It's pure chance, like this: whenever I stumble in life, all the stacks of books in my head tumble down and spill words, and these words are my texts. Now please excuse me whilst I go cry rivers of glitter about actually just having written this

      Delete
  2. That's really pretty; you'd do well to try writing some happy things sometime, but I don't know if that would be enjoyable to you at all, unless you save some of that glitter to stick on them.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I might try. You must know that I think one must be crazy to 'only enjoy' writing miserable texts- it's just that I feel like writing when I also feel miserable, which is super unfortunate for this blog... Im working on it, though.

      Delete

Don't be shy.