Status: comes and goes.
Me, My Prussian Blues (and That Guy With the Horns)
Sycophant of Scintillating Circumstance: A Victim of Psychosis
It's empty.
The air is lit only by the softness of the moon and decorated by the frayed scabs of black cloud that slide gently across it in the night. The light is silver and cold, like always. This quiet evening is too frigid, too beautiful, too ideal. In its heavy shadows, we are all the same.
Through the glass panel windows, the dim light filters through, turning dust particles in the air to shimmering white and the surfaces of the desks a deceptively polished alabaster.
The black board is completely blank. All the desks are empty, except one.
Second row, all the way to the left, against the wall of windows, I occupy a single desk.
There's something surreal about sitting in the school at night, alone. I'm here because I am superior, a loner, and I want it that way, don't I?
Don't I?
The glass panel has been slid open for an unrestricted air current to hold the classroom in eerie motion. The breeze is chill and scentless. My notes are open to a blank white page, and a hand hovers over it clasping a pen incorrectly; the appendage casts a dark shadow on the paper that tickles my conscience with annoyance.
The shadow of my hand is starkly outlined into the exact shape of its castor. A perfect copy. But it's not, is it? It is flawed; there is no substance, no depth or humanity to the shadow hand. But nonetheless it is a perfect shape, a perfect front for something that exists really parallel to it. In this world, the hand is the shadow is the shadow is the hand.
I catch the chill on my breath with an open mouth and dry teeth. As if caught in a single, overpowering gasp of ecstasy, delicate enough to appear casual and profound, the lungs swell without breathing and the eyes widen with a chilling stillness that does not permit sight. In this world, my fingers will never tremble and my legs will never cramp and I will never, ever lose concentration. It's amazing, excellent, perfect, lonely.
Beneath my feet I feel the thrum and hum of a grand white piano. A melody. To me it is soulless, but to them it is something more; a sort of melancholy reprisal, of French origins. I know that even in the basement's auditorium, with their unworthy soul pouring shamefully through the vents on all the school's floors, they still feel the sky moving horrifically above them; I don't believe they know that it is night. Just a heartbeat, easy to ignore.
The metallic slam of a locker sends a sonic wave that seems solid and drunkenly slow-moving crashing against the closed wooden door of my classroom, some bouncing off but enough slipping inside to ricochet off the walls. In my imagination it rattles the loose brass doorknob and whispers over the tile floor to upset the thin sheen of chalk dust and humanity that dirties the floor. The footsteps of one entity pacing the hallway carry more emotion than all the thoughts in my head.
There is a trumping thumping noise from the ceiling, tickling the crown of my head. It's the flat roof, the roof-boy again. He likes to sleep there during free periods; he likes to scream there on days nobody listens. Something of an average mystery, easy to ignore.
In my perfectly mindless transcendence, I am the inhuman reality of the depth and flaw behind a perfect shadow. But in this world, finally we see the shadow for what it is. I can be perfection here, at last, but still I feel a lingering sense of struggle. It is the lack of meaningful or even superficial relationship, I know—all humans are touched by a sense of spirituality and individualism that drives them to prove their worth to others in the form of social bonds.
I'm fighting so hard to love my solitude.
I can only hope that soon I will overcome; I will grow into a monster, a reflection of my surroundings, and then it won't hurt any more. Because I'm a loner, and I want it this way. Don't I?
Before my white blank page, before my blackboard, I can forget the Minotaur on the roof and the Siren in the basement and maybe even the boy in the hallway. This empty, dark room, too ideal and too quiet for my solitude to go unnoticed, is an agonising present and a promising future. It is the shadow of my mind.
It's good to be back.
It's good to be back.
It's good to be back.
The air is lit only by the softness of the moon and decorated by the frayed scabs of black cloud that slide gently across it in the night. The light is silver and cold, like always. This quiet evening is too frigid, too beautiful, too ideal. In its heavy shadows, we are all the same.
Through the glass panel windows, the dim light filters through, turning dust particles in the air to shimmering white and the surfaces of the desks a deceptively polished alabaster.
The black board is completely blank. All the desks are empty, except one.
Second row, all the way to the left, against the wall of windows, I occupy a single desk.
There's something surreal about sitting in the school at night, alone. I'm here because I am superior, a loner, and I want it that way, don't I?
Don't I?
The glass panel has been slid open for an unrestricted air current to hold the classroom in eerie motion. The breeze is chill and scentless. My notes are open to a blank white page, and a hand hovers over it clasping a pen incorrectly; the appendage casts a dark shadow on the paper that tickles my conscience with annoyance.
The shadow of my hand is starkly outlined into the exact shape of its castor. A perfect copy. But it's not, is it? It is flawed; there is no substance, no depth or humanity to the shadow hand. But nonetheless it is a perfect shape, a perfect front for something that exists really parallel to it. In this world, the hand is the shadow is the shadow is the hand.
I catch the chill on my breath with an open mouth and dry teeth. As if caught in a single, overpowering gasp of ecstasy, delicate enough to appear casual and profound, the lungs swell without breathing and the eyes widen with a chilling stillness that does not permit sight. In this world, my fingers will never tremble and my legs will never cramp and I will never, ever lose concentration. It's amazing, excellent, perfect, lonely.
Beneath my feet I feel the thrum and hum of a grand white piano. A melody. To me it is soulless, but to them it is something more; a sort of melancholy reprisal, of French origins. I know that even in the basement's auditorium, with their unworthy soul pouring shamefully through the vents on all the school's floors, they still feel the sky moving horrifically above them; I don't believe they know that it is night. Just a heartbeat, easy to ignore.
The metallic slam of a locker sends a sonic wave that seems solid and drunkenly slow-moving crashing against the closed wooden door of my classroom, some bouncing off but enough slipping inside to ricochet off the walls. In my imagination it rattles the loose brass doorknob and whispers over the tile floor to upset the thin sheen of chalk dust and humanity that dirties the floor. The footsteps of one entity pacing the hallway carry more emotion than all the thoughts in my head.
There is a trumping thumping noise from the ceiling, tickling the crown of my head. It's the flat roof, the roof-boy again. He likes to sleep there during free periods; he likes to scream there on days nobody listens. Something of an average mystery, easy to ignore.
In my perfectly mindless transcendence, I am the inhuman reality of the depth and flaw behind a perfect shadow. But in this world, finally we see the shadow for what it is. I can be perfection here, at last, but still I feel a lingering sense of struggle. It is the lack of meaningful or even superficial relationship, I know—all humans are touched by a sense of spirituality and individualism that drives them to prove their worth to others in the form of social bonds.
I'm fighting so hard to love my solitude.
I can only hope that soon I will overcome; I will grow into a monster, a reflection of my surroundings, and then it won't hurt any more. Because I'm a loner, and I want it this way. Don't I?
Before my white blank page, before my blackboard, I can forget the Minotaur on the roof and the Siren in the basement and maybe even the boy in the hallway. This empty, dark room, too ideal and too quiet for my solitude to go unnoticed, is an agonising present and a promising future. It is the shadow of my mind.
It's good to be back.
It's good to be back.
It's good to be back.
♠ ♠ ♠
People talk about eating lunch alone like it's one of the worst parts of being a loser in high school, but what's really the worst is eating lunch alone at a table full of people.