Teenage Riot
The prision of the free ones
The reason of the violence is the violence of the reason.
He sat there in the darkness of his room leaning on the cheap wooden closet. The sweetness of the smoke flooding his mind, while Patti Smith's raspy voice, irrupted almost violently into the chords of "Gloria". He kept his eyes closed. His mind escaping his body. The smoke acting a dance of symbols, softly moving to the chords, performing a mental suicide.
Keith was a normal guy from the East Village: he did drugs. He had been in several fights, which lead to jail. It wasn't that he liked to fight at all, but the circunstances always lead him to it. It had been a one night thing, though. And he well what can a guy like him do? Being sick of everything? go around being depressed? Actually none.
There in the darkness, the truth confronted him, as it always did: images from the city poping wildly into his mind, his mom and dad fighting for the smallest thing. Images from the world: war, death, the elections, fraud, hunger, riots, discrimination, poverty, suicide, more war...
Nothing ever made some fucking sense and those images would haunt him every night, for his whole life. The night or the day never mattered. The beast was tormented by the truth, demons howling for freedom.
So he stands up and bangs his head to the wall, breaking the apparent peace. The rush of pain bend his knees as he hits the floor. He stands weakly, leaning on the wall, he looks at it with disgust. He kicks the wall,over and over, it feels fine repetition brings false security, a lie hearts like to believe, then he tackles it with desperation, the feeling of shame dancing on his heart, and fury ruling his eyes. Focusing all his energy in kicking that wall, his feet felt numb already as he kept slamming them to the wall. Then he stops and in a sudden movement, he turns away, closing his eyes so damn hard, tears running down his face.
He is sick of everything and his mind is sick of knowing it. Taking the rage in his hands, he takes the lamp from the nightstand and smashes it to the closet door. Thousand pieces of crystal expeled through the room, crystal mirroring his madness. Feeling sicker, he opens the door. He is so ready to go, but he turns back his head, taking a look at his chaos, stepping outside and closing the door as loud as he cans resolution on his mind.
He ran through the hallway, and runs the stairs as quickly as humanly possible, he opens the iron door.
The cold air of the night hit him, blasting his senses away, just the way air frees a man with desperation. Nothing made sense, but being outside,with the city lights, that was ok. The night filled him with joy and oblition. The chaos was left behind as he hits the road, following the path of freedom. Keith looked at the skies with admiration, his fury had not disappeared, it had been transformed to a new thing: rebellion.
Keith's POV
Out, and free, at last... Night, do whatever you want with me
"Jesus died for somebodys sins,
but not mine,
my sins are my own,
they belong to me"
He sat there in the darkness of his room leaning on the cheap wooden closet. The sweetness of the smoke flooding his mind, while Patti Smith's raspy voice, irrupted almost violently into the chords of "Gloria". He kept his eyes closed. His mind escaping his body. The smoke acting a dance of symbols, softly moving to the chords, performing a mental suicide.
Keith was a normal guy from the East Village: he did drugs. He had been in several fights, which lead to jail. It wasn't that he liked to fight at all, but the circunstances always lead him to it. It had been a one night thing, though. And he well what can a guy like him do? Being sick of everything? go around being depressed? Actually none.
There in the darkness, the truth confronted him, as it always did: images from the city poping wildly into his mind, his mom and dad fighting for the smallest thing. Images from the world: war, death, the elections, fraud, hunger, riots, discrimination, poverty, suicide, more war...
Nothing ever made some fucking sense and those images would haunt him every night, for his whole life. The night or the day never mattered. The beast was tormented by the truth, demons howling for freedom.
So he stands up and bangs his head to the wall, breaking the apparent peace. The rush of pain bend his knees as he hits the floor. He stands weakly, leaning on the wall, he looks at it with disgust. He kicks the wall,over and over, it feels fine repetition brings false security, a lie hearts like to believe, then he tackles it with desperation, the feeling of shame dancing on his heart, and fury ruling his eyes. Focusing all his energy in kicking that wall, his feet felt numb already as he kept slamming them to the wall. Then he stops and in a sudden movement, he turns away, closing his eyes so damn hard, tears running down his face.
He is sick of everything and his mind is sick of knowing it. Taking the rage in his hands, he takes the lamp from the nightstand and smashes it to the closet door. Thousand pieces of crystal expeled through the room, crystal mirroring his madness. Feeling sicker, he opens the door. He is so ready to go, but he turns back his head, taking a look at his chaos, stepping outside and closing the door as loud as he cans resolution on his mind.
He ran through the hallway, and runs the stairs as quickly as humanly possible, he opens the iron door.
The cold air of the night hit him, blasting his senses away, just the way air frees a man with desperation. Nothing made sense, but being outside,with the city lights, that was ok. The night filled him with joy and oblition. The chaos was left behind as he hits the road, following the path of freedom. Keith looked at the skies with admiration, his fury had not disappeared, it had been transformed to a new thing: rebellion.
Keith's POV
Out, and free, at last... Night, do whatever you want with me
"Jesus died for somebodys sins,
but not mine,
my sins are my own,
they belong to me"