I miss you. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me. Why I stopped living once you died, why everything around me just… stopped, on that day. I tried to move on, to love and live more as I think know you’d have wanted me to. But I couldn’t. I just…XXXXX XXXX X XXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXX XXXXX XXXXI don’t know.
Some part of me must feel guilty, for all those things I never did or said. For that matter, I must feel guilty for half of the things I DID do and say.XXX XXXXX XXX XXXXX XX XXX XXX XXXXXXXX XXXXX XXXX XXXX XXXXX XXXX XXXX X XXX XX XXXX XXX XXXXXXXX XX XXXXX XX XXXXX XXX XXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXX XX XXXX XXX XXXXX XXX XX XX XXXXXXXXX XXXX XX XXXX XXX XX XXXXX XXX XXXXXXX XXXX X XXX XXXXX XX XX XXXX XXXX XXX XXXX XXX XXXXXX XXXXXX XXX XXXX XX XXXX XXXXXXXX XXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXYou deserved so much more, and yet… now there’s no way to give it to you.
It’s unfair, considering everything that you did for me.
With you gone… I don’t know that I’ll never have that love again. That unequivocal, unconditional, unrestrained kind of love you gave. I’ve known its greatness, and I’m afraid that I’ll never feel it again. Which is horrible, because I don’t think I appreciated it when I could. I did everything within my power to push you away, to thwart your feelings for me, and you never once budged. You were patient, and kind, and were always there waiting for me like some silent lighthouse flickering in the distance. You gave, and you did so without considering the price or the return.
I never knew it at the time, but while you were alive you completed me.X XXXX XXXX XXX XXXX XX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX XXX XX XXXXX XXX XXXXXXX XXX XXX XXXX XXX XX XXXX X XXXXX XXXX XXXXXX XXXX XXXXXX XXXX XXXXX XXXXXXX XXX XXXX XX XXXXXX XXXX XXXX X XXXX XXXXXXNow I feel hollowed out, adrift with no purpose beyond floating with the current. I’m completely and horribly lost.
Nothing will ever compare. Nothing could take your place, because nothing else could possibly measure up to you. And so I don’t love. I don’t love anything, and I don’t let anything love me.
It hasn’t been for lack of trying. I’ve taught myself many things, and read many books. I’ve listened to music from all eras, all styles, and every country. I’ve kissed and had sex, I’ve held hands and shared secrets with people in the dark spaces between sleep and wakefulness, between the sheets and the hollows between two sets of skin. There have been films and children, new technologies and pets, food, clothing, ideas, religions, homes, friends, and everything else. But I don’t love any of them. I can’t.
Even now, I know what you would say. You would tell me that everything deserves love. You would tell me that love gives, rather than takes.XXX XX XXXX XX XXXX XXX XXXXX XXXXXXX XXX XXXXXX XXXXX XX XXXXBut I just want to feel it again, if only for a moment. I want to feel that love pouring into me and running over, so much that gravity is swept away and I’m swimming in it.
And maybe I could have it with someone else, even something else. Some faith or goal or dream. But I don’t think that I will, and so I shy away from anything that might produce the barest semblance of love.XX XXXXXXA trickle wouldn’t do, because I would only want more… and the thirst for it would only make me drink the well dry before it could give anything else.
So here I am, starving myself.
X XXXX XXXX X XXX XXXXX XXX XXXX XXX XXXXXX XXXXXX XXXX XXXX I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around you one more time. I want to hear you speak to me, even if it’s a whisper. I miss you and it hurts.
Nobody Nowhere Everybody Somewhere Here or there, in betweens and Above or belows We are all inside and outside together, Within and without The ability to do nothing Even when it looks as though that Is exactly what we are doing
And still Each and every person here Is led to believe that we are Always Nowhere Special, good, interesting or truly dark Because our lives are less interesting Than fabricated situations In comedies, tragedies, melodramas Cartoons When instead they are more Because they are real
It doesn’t seem so, Saturated as we are with the Photoshopped coloring of Ads and entertainments And it feels like Sex is less satisfying, Pain less meaningful, Love less illuminating.
But if everyone stopped stopping To compare what we see Feel, taste, touch, are With everything that isn’t Never was, never will be Would we know the truth for what it is – Much more engaging in its complexity Without being exaggerated Into caricature, Fixed in many shades and flaws, Not all bright and powerful But real and so each little Defect deserving of respect?
Don’t pay any attention to what Hollywood would have you think of love. Don’t put stock in greeting cards, or trite, outdated religious sentiments. Each and every bullshit description from these sources is not only flawed, but a product. A lie meant to push hope in the form of movies, cosmetics, pills for erectile dysfunction, clothing, expensive cars and gym memberships.
He knows the truth: love is a monster.
Or maybe it is many monsters, and call it what you will: the succubus, a vampire, a ghost, the boogeyman. It’s a seducing, consuming, haunting, frightening thing – and for good reason. Love will, in the immortal words of Ian Curtis, tear us apart.
That warm, hazy feeling you get when you’re next to someone you believe you love? That’s a dangerous drug coursing its way through your veins. When other substances produce similar effects they are eschewed, even reviled. Doctors and psychologists treat patients with addictions to heroin, alcohol, even marijuana of all things. But if someone OD’s on love, they’re thought of not as a degenerate, but as a Romantic - a kind of tragic, poetic figure to be pitied or saddened over. They’re hardly someone to be disgusted by.
But, take a dozen shots of tequila. Feel how it warms you, makes the room spin around. Make note of the stupid things it makes you say. Commit that feeling to memory.
When next you’re in love, you’ll see how they are the same. That illusion of happiness will eventually part, the same way a buzz fades. Sobriety will reveal the cold, empty truth. Don’t look away. It will scare the fuck out of you.
He remembers feeling drugged, lazy and spinning about wildly at once – all orientation lost in a cloud of hormones and the rush of post-coital endorphins. It enticed him. It made him feel young again, and without a single, reasonable concern. He fucking devolved, is what happened.
Then, the pangs started. The first one, he recalls, was after a long weekend spent at her house. He was no further than a half mile away before he felt like something small and sharp had hooked itself into his chest and was tugging on him. They were mild tugs, if insistent. Come back, they spelled in Morse code. Come back to me. Lay down with me for just one more night. Damn the consequences.
He’d shaken them off at first, but they grew stronger with each week. With every experience shared with her, it became more and more difficult for him to leave - to attend to his own life, his own business. He sank more of his time into her, the jaws of love clenching tight around his chest, constricting the flow of blood to his brain. It was slowly killing him, the most dangerous part being that the sensation was exquisite.
He began to feel adrift without her daily presence. Without her voice over the phone, her fingers against his neck, the smell of her that penetrated his clothes and hair… without those things he was a zombie, tripping over his own decaying limbs. Lovefool.
The teeth sank further into his flesh.
You can imagine, perhaps, what happens next in the Hollywood version of this story. Boy and Girl encounter problems. They argue, refusing to compromise. Tensions mount, and they take time apart from one another. Then, wham! Boy has an epiphany, purchases flowers or crafts a mix-tape, and runs through the streets to find her. Girl will have reservations, but he will appease her worries. They embrace, kiss, and are together forever. The End.
He would’ve run to the other side of the earth if he could have. In Tibet, he might’ve collected his thoughts, came to his senses, and joined a Buddhist monastery. As it was, he couldn’t or wouldn’t escape. The monster’s teeth had caught him too neatly. It had seduced him with skin and song and sex. He wanted more, and so he took it into himself.
Soon, plans were made. He would move in with her, or she with him. They talked, seriously despite whimsical tones, of getting married. They would have children one day – how would they raise them? Which one of them would be the disciplinarian, and which one would provide the fun? They would get a dog first. If things got stale in the bedroom they would bring in a third, maybe even a fourth.
Meanwhile, an infection of fear had settled in his fang-wrought wounds.
Something was wrong, he convinced himself. Or perhaps there really was something wrong to begin with. Either way, he had no evidence. He didn’t even have the faintest idea of what could be awry at all. But it hanged there, over his feelings like a cloud or a wet blanket.
Before, when she didn’t call, it was because she was busy; he was happy to wait for her. Now, he wondered if she didn’t love him anymore, if perhaps she was unfaithful. He imagined her with another man, his lips on hers, his arms pulling her legs apart, him lying on top of her. In his visions, she would moan and whisper things to this stranger – the same sort of things she whispered to him, when they fucked between her sheets.
He worried that he was an idiot, that maybe she had been someone else the entire time he knew her. That she’d led him on for some twisted, and yet completely unfathomable reason. Or, it could have been that she had many different selves – he would’ve known only a small piece of who she was, because she didn’t trust him. Because he was too stupid or sick with love to see things clearly.
For that matter, he wondered if he loved her. Wasn’t it supposed to feel… different? When you met the One, didn’t it turn your world inside out and make everything right again? Wasn’t it supposed to make you feel complete? “When you meet the One, you’ll know,” he’d heard people say. That itched in his mind like an earworm, some top 40 song that he couldn’t shake off no matter what else he tried to think about. He wondered if he was making a mistake, in being with her. He was afraid it wasn’t real.
It could’ve ended in many ways.
One or the other could have been caught cheating, and feeling their pride shatter, erupted in anger or despair to End Things. They could have grown bored with one another, or realized that they weren’t meant to be – and parted ways amicably in search of their Ones. Maybe, they could have grown old together – become a married couple comfortable with each other, only to wake up one morning and find that they weren’t in love any longer and unable to do anything about it.
But none of those were how it happened.
After she died, the Beast fed on his heart for what seemed like weeks. Its teeth gnashed on and crushed his chest, his heart, his stomach. The music stopped. Every color faded into a dull, tinted gray. And so he died too, in a way.
He was wracked with questions, and guilt. Every small flaw between them drained away like dirty water, and he was left only with the good memories. In a way, it was worse. He wondered how he could have doubted her, questioned the validity of their relationship. Of course he loved her, he decided. He was all the worse for coming to that conclusion.
It only provided a bigger meal.
Now, decades later, he realizes that it was real. Only, it was too immense for him to see clearly. The monstrous size of it frightened him away, made him feel powerless and preyed upon. So he attempted to hide from it, to deny it in some fool’s notion of reasserting control over his life. In the end though, he supposes that it doesn’t really matter whether or not his feelings were real.
Love still chewed him up, and spit him out.
The next time you wake up with a hangover – sweating alcohol and reeking of cigarettes from the bar, unable to keep anything on your stomach, remember. Think on how that warm feeling was too much for you, how you didn’t want it to end and so let it consume you. Take note of the way your world spun out of control and left you sick and stumbling. How you swear you’ll never touch the drink again.
The next time love has torn you apart, you’ll see how they are the same.
He likes the skeletal silhouette of winter trees against the ochre-colored sunrise. He misses his own breath, its quiet and steady rhythm, as much as he misses the feel of someone else breathing sleepily against his neck. He yearns for the quiet and still moments, those fleeting times when he felt at peace and comfortable in his skin, while the night was breaking into day.
He loves poetry, and the lyrics of songs that sound fragile. When he was alive and others would lay open their heart to him, abandoning their armor in momentary lapses of vanity or pride… only then did he feel real, and not so alone in a cold world.
He was haunted even then, of course, though what ghosted through his inner corridors was different. Now, it is more that he cannot have an actual relationship with himself. He won’t allow it. There is a barrier between what he wants to be and who he is, and so everything his mind or heart touches on is a bare and insubstantial surface.
It wasn’t always so, though he remembers the day the change occurred. It is still, despite the years, a vivid memory.
She’d had a fearless vulnerability to her, as long as he’d known her. They’d spent every summer together since the age of twelve, and he was quite in love with her. The summer of 1985 was no different, and they spent it as they always had. Too much of their time was wasted in idle moments: of television, wandering the malls, swimming lazily, drinking beer and talking about nothing. So much could have been shared between them, if it weren’t for those mundane fascinations. If they had only spoken more, truly opened up to one another, perhaps he would have told her how he felt. If only that, maybe she would have stayed with him as he knew she wanted to. He didn’t. She didn’t. That August they parted ways and upon returning to her abusive mother’s home in rural Tennessee, she swallowed a entire bottle of painkillers. She was found dead later that evening.
It happened so suddenly, as though in the exhale of a single breath. It wasn’t a long struggle for him, or in any way violent. One moment his world had her in its lungs, and the next - she had escaped like a sigh.
He knew he could have protected her better, if he’d been allowed the chance, and in guarding her he might have saved himself. But what was, was - he understood that he could change nothing. The knowledge only made everything worse though, as something of himself was ripped out that night, and flung aside so casually by the people around him. None of them much cared - he was the one that mattered, as far as they were concerned. They told him that there wasn’t anything he could have done, as though he didn’t know it already. He was alive. She was dead, and besides which they didn’t know her anyhow.
When the ache finally began to subside, that sharp pain in his chest that felt like a nail made of cold and loneliness and the knowledge that he would never see her again, he convinced himself that he was left a numb and empty shell and always would be. He couldn’t bear to feel, not anything at all. He left.
Later he made friends that weren’t ever friends to him, drawn in by superficial things like taste in music or alcohol so that he would never have to make a real connection. He dated again, but only for a few months at a time - ending each affair before there was a risk of love. Magazines and posters became his life - he even made a glossy ad of himself to fight off the sensitive and delicate truth of who he was.
For years his life was consumed with such inconsequential things. He put on each new fad as though donning armor, went to the gym and ran or lifted weights while staring thoughtlessly at his own reflection in the tall mirrors that made a shrine of all the walls. He stopped doing most of the things he once loved, and became a machine that existed only to create a barrier of beauty and popularity between himself and the rest of the world. It never made him feel any degree of happiness. It couldn’t - it wasn’t who he was, only who he wanted to be in the fear of being crushed again because of his nature.
When some years afterward he finally realized that beneath the plastic cage he had built around himself, he still felt and hurt and thought in lines of poetry, he followed her example and killed himself with alcohol and drugs. His overdose didn’t come until after four months of black celebration.
He still exists in that apartment, pale and invisible as he always wanted to be.
That some part of him cries to sappy love stories, that he wants to hold and be held despite his screen of cynicism, that he listens to the sound of the wind through the trees and imagines that she is trying to speak to him… All these things and more he will still never admit to anyone alive or dead. Only tenatively will he admit them to himself, and those confessions are always in the silent times when night breaks into day.
Mirror:That's something I've had to learn to accept the past few years with those people... the fact that they very well could end up dead before they ended up well.
Phantom:All of us are haunted, by something or another. You know the song "I'm Sticking With You" that I quoted last night? It can make me sad sometimes, because I remember holding her limp hand in mine and singing that to her as she lay unconscious in her hospital bed. Nobody, and I mean nobody, has ever given me the degree of love and understanding that she did.
M:I'm tearing up right now. That is so special... to have someone like that. Even through loss, the memories are priceless and irreplaceable.
P:Yes, but what makes me the saddest is that those memories curl in on themselves, become something warped with time... until it's hard to know exactly what you experienced. Sometimes I freak out because I can't remember the way her laughter sounded, or the way that she smelled. And I toss myself backwards in my mind and search frantically for the memory of it.
P:...when I was a child, she called me her little shadow, because I would follow her around everywhere...
M:I still struggle to remember the smell of my own mother, the Chantilly perfume and Salem Slim Lights on top of one another.
All those girls, and the scattering of boys with body dysmorphic disorder… he understands them, after a fashion. He’s been dead since 1990, and though he tried for years, could never catch his reflection on any gleaming surface. He barely remembers what he looks like, and his mind’s eye has stretched his flaws into caricature. He imagines that he was ugly, but has no way of adequately knowing for certain.
Some days, he’s fine. Others, he wants to throw himself against a wall in sheer self-loathing. If he could have, he might’ve done so on a number of occasions.
It’s odd how not knowing what you look like to others can twist you, wring you out like a wet towel and leave you feeling limp and lifeless. It comes as little consolation to him that he can’t be seen anyhow – if anything, it makes his problem worse. Even if he truly is vile, knowing would provide a degree of comfort. Being seen at all, knowing that he exists… well, he imagines that he would be able to breathe. Metaphorically speaking, of course. As it is, he exists as much in a world of illusion as the living – with their makeup and corsets, infomercials for exercise programs and weight loss supplements, their hair products and stylists. Only, his illusions are different.
But then, all illusions are a lure – the hope of enticing someone to approach the gritty truth. He’s dead. Who could approach him at all, even if anyone wanted to?
It wasn’t that the phantom had grown bored of television – he’d become so immensely disinterested that he was contemplating committing suicide all over again. His decision to trek out into the world beyond his haunted apartment was made in the interests of his self-preservation. Though at present, he’s rethinking that decision. In hindsight his first mistake was coming to the fucking mall.
Watching other people can often hold some fascination for him, but here… it’s less like watching people and more like watching the glittering cogs of commercialism turn over and over. He might be a ghost, but these people are zombies. Only instead of brains, they’re shuffling towards a prey of electronics and cheaply made clothing.
Still, he’d been waylaid here by morbid fascination, and there were a few moments of entertainment.
He’s now literally ghosting through the jeans section of what is, almost painstakingly, the same retail store as all the others here. Top 40 plays on the sound system, while people are doing their best to look cooler than everyone else and failing miserably. His eyes fall on a gay couple, both of them looking trendy to a fault. One of them is pulling pairs of jeans out from their cubby-holes for inspection. The phantom watches them, sleepily.
Cubby-holes, heh. There’s a gay joke in theresomewhere.
Every single pair of jeans – every single one, is precisely distressed. They’re exact copies of one another, but for their various sizes. They all have thatawful facsimile of flaw - the little tear in the fifth pocket, the whitened scrapes along the hems, the mathematically positioned hole just above the right knee. Unique flaws might add character, but these are beyond mundane. The phantom wouldn’t be caught dead in them – and his body is already six feet under.
“Oh, here’s your size, Randy!” one of them trills. He holds up a pair, looks it over, and places it in front of Randy’s legs as though attempting to imagine what he’d look like in them. Personally, the phantom thinks Randy would look like the lead role in a production of Peter Pan, if the play was costumed by Abercrombie and Fitch. Surely, the man would have to have a rib removed to get into those jeans. Or develop a nasty cocaine habit. Or rub down his legs with K-Y, first.
Does he have that much scorn for Randy’s balls? Jesus Christ, wearing those is going to lower his sperm count.
“Baby, put those down,” Randy says in an even tone. “I don’t really like them.” He looks around with a wince. “And could you lower your voice? The whole mall doesn’t need to know you found my size in anything – it’s not exactly news worthy.” Now he’s adopting a long-suffering look, and he shoots an apologetic glance to a woman browsing the shirts nearby. She smiles at him weakly, and pointedly returns to her shopping without a word.
“What do you mean, you don’t like them? I think you’d look super hot in these.” He continues to hold them up against Randy’s legs, his head tilted to the side as he considers them.
Super hot? Did I die and go to South Park? Please tell me I’m not actually witnessing a stereotype in action.
“Andrew, please. What’s wrong with the ones I have? They’re just as beat up, and I didn’t have to pay extra for the holes,” he says in a wry tone. The phantom, had he been alive, might have reached over and given Randy a handjob just to show his appreciation for the sentiment. At least there were some people around that could be found innocent of assholism.
Andy and Randy? The phantom suddenly muses. That’s sickeningly cute. Now I’ve died and gone to The Family Circus.
Andrew rolls his eyes, ostentatiously. “They’re old, that’s what. You’re so lucky you have me around to dress you up, you know.” And he reaches over and plants a kiss on his boyfriend’s cheek. Randy looks mortified for a moment, then sighs and nods his head. What a victim.
His briefly renewed faith in the living having vanished, it takes every ounce of willpower he has not to pass over into the afterlife right then and there. He shakes his transparent ghost head, passes through the shelves and makes for the exit. All around him, customers flock to the merchandise, make their way to and from the registers with their purchases. All of them are dressed exactly alike: purposefully worn polo collars upturned, studded leather belts cinching the waists of their expensively fabricated, distressed jeans. If he was still in possession of a stomach, he might’ve vomited. As it is, all he can do is wonder why the hell he left the house in the first place, especially since he also doesn’t have a mouth in which to shove a cinnabon.
Something in the display window of Hot Topic catches his eye, and he pauses. …Or a torso on which to wear that awesome coat.
Clearly, not even the cynically dead can escape being made a victim of advertising.
His ghost-hand only passes through the remote again, so the television channel continues to irritate him. Lately, he can’t manage to become corporeal for the tiniest moment, though (and this may be why he has a hard time caring enough to affect the world around him) he wonders if things would be different if he could. He may not be left at the mercy of another banal reality show, but that would only make room for something equally uninteresting to replace it. For that matter, if only he could stand to rise from his seat and walk away… But he can’t, or doesn’t, and so remains on the boundary between inactivity and movement, thinking.
Why is it that we always seem to be on the fringe of something? The thought comes to him easily enough, as it often does. He has now spent more time in an afterlife limbo than he spent in all his years of living. Even before his death, life was more of a pale shadow than anything substantial. It could have been more, but his world was built on illusion and advertising. He was nothing but a microcosm in the machine of capitalism, a product himself - upon which to support other merchandise.
Yes, we always seem to be pushed there. The media would have us believe that we’re on the fringe of collapse, politicians keep us thinking that we’re on the fringe of progress or stability, Hollywood keeps us on the fringe of fame and the internet creates the illusion that we’re on the fringe of connecting to others in a personal capacity. And yet, most of us seem to be happy there. Is it that we want to hope that there is always something better to be attained, something just beyond our grasp? Or is it instead that we are afraid of receiving that which we want the most - chiefly because we know somewhere within us that once we have what we’ve envied in others, it will no longer be desirable?
He barely even remembers desire, dead as he is. But there is the memory of it, the obsessive looping around of those recollections that he analyzes again and again… Unable to move forward, and also unable to deconstruct the past to his liking. It is, more or less, the same problem.
Whatever the reasons, we all wander along the perimeter, and even those of us who are sincerely ambitious and succeed in those areas we wish to succeed in only realize that there is still more to be had. Sometimes, those goals are reasonable and motivated by honest desires. Other times… well, we delude ourselves (or are deluded by other sources) into wanting that which is unattainable.
He sinks further back into the recliner, now lost within a tangled maze of thoughts he’s had every day since he died. He muses on more recent experiences, true - but it is also true that those experiences are in essence the same as those he’s always had.
He mumbles to himself now, imagining that he’s using his ghost-limbs to write his thoughts down on some phantom piece of paper.
I recently watched a video online (by way of buzzfeed.com) in which a young, completely insane woman wanted nothing more than to be within an inch of Lindsay Lohan. In fact, while observing her manner of dress and the tattoos which she unabashedly copied from those of her idol, I can only assume that she wants to BE the troubled has-been starlet. I have to admit, a good portion of my faith in humanity died after watching that clip. If you’re reading this and have a morbid curiosity to duplicate my experience, be warned. What is watched cannot be un-watched.
Now I wonder what could possibly be appealing about this unattainable goal. Certainly, anyone with half a brain can see that LiLo is a plane-wreck. She’s a host of psychoses, and they run the celebrity gamut - anorexia and/or bulimia, drug and alcohol addiction, nymphomania, histrionics. But, and I think this is where some may get confused on the matter, all of these things only give her more attention from the media. She riddles the covers of US Weekly and Star magazine, Perez Hilton regularly blogs about her (not to mention everyone else), and occasionally there’s a celeb-segment on a major news network that features a panel of experts discussing her issues in pontificating detail. She’s rich. She’s thin. Everybody knows her name. Are these the only goals left in our society?
Certainly not; the aspirations to notoriety are only a symptom. We’re all being spoon fed fantasy, and it’s creating an epidemic of American crackheads itching for their next bump of unreality. One needs only to look at those same news networks for the picture to become clear. Encouraged by his irritation, he grows more pedantic and self-serving - never noticing that the things he is pretending to write have all been said, and have even been said better. More effectively. Less hackneyed.
The graphics are always pretty. In bright, sleek-looking imagery Fox or MSNBC sell panic. The taglines are typically phrases like “Dangerous Foods Are in Your Pantry” or “Is Doomsday Upon Us?” Everyone loves a good possible-apocalypse nowadays, and it’s increasingly been the media’s job to make life less like life and more like the movies. Insinuating that we’re all about to die from the meek-seeming middle easterner next door, or from the sudden evaporation of the entire ozone layer is going to get far more ratings than anything realistic, let alone life affirming.
And now, the crescendo of pseudo-philosophical thought - at least, what he is capable of while ignoring the television on a la-z boy in Limbo.
Is reality so horrible? Is it so bad that we have mothers instead of posh Hollywood agents, duplexes rather than mansions, a scattering of true friends in lieu of the adoration of the masses? Maybe it is, but I prefer to believe that the grass is always greener on the other side of the train tracks.
He pauses, mimes raising a pen to his lips to chew at its tip. A thought tickles his mind, as it always does - will he go for it? Will he say these things carte blanche, sure in his own authority as an author… or will he make it less likely to be criticized? He knows that he can’t throw away his fragile armors, and so adds the following:
Also, maybe I’m a complete bore and should just enjoy the race like everyone else does. Maybe I should stop watching and participate in the games others play. But then again, I’ve always been something of a loner rather than a follower… or a leader.
I’ve always enjoyed, and am possibly even addicted to the fantasy of living on the fringe.
He raises his eyes to the television screen, in Limbo, and lets his thoughts drain away like water sinking into clean nothing. Ho-hum, another program peppered with celebrities and broken into segments with advertisements for total crap.