Passing By

I was sitting at a stop sign, on my way to purchase something i didn't need, when i saw her. She was sitting at the bus stop. She was beautiful. Not in your average everyday since of beautiful which has slowly bored me over the years. But beautiful, in a haggard sort of way. I was wearing sunglasses, to protect me from the sun, but now they were protecting me from being caught. Caught staring. I stared at her through the tinted frames, and began to analyze everything about her. Hopeful that my conclusion could justify her staring at me also.

She was waiting for a bus. Surely that means that she can't be to comfortable with where the road of life has taken her. I've done everything horribly wrong, with horrific consequences, and even i own a vehicle. My car isn't the nicest in the world, but it has it's charm. Maybe if she were to get in, and i carried her to wherever she was going she would be impressed. Finally after years of waiting for the bus, her knight in shining armor rode in on his Pontiac sunfire, and saved her from the humiliation of those bus windows. The ones that are extra large, so people in cars can laugh at those who are not. We would laugh at my cd player. Even though it was installed years ago, it still advertises it on the display. IPOD ACCESSIBLE, DOLBY SOUND, it flashes over and over again. We would playfully, fumble with the controls, skipping song after song, until the laughter subsided. After that happened we would analyze each touch of our hands as they gently bumped into eachother. I think she would like that. I think she would like a guy with a car who can take her places. A guy who she could depend on. A guy with an advertising radio.

Her long blond hair was resting on sunburned shoulders. Those burns indicate she doesn't belong here, like me. I wonder how she ended up here. Every outsider to this island has a story. Some are more interesting than others. But they all mean something to the person who tells them. I've heard happy ones, but mostly sad ones. The sad ones give me comfort. I have a sad one. I don't usually fit in, and being a part of the "sad story" club makes me calm. It makes me feel a part of a team. I wonder what her story is? In my head i pray for a sad one. I want her story to be extremely sad, but not as sad as mine. I think that if I were to pull over and talk to her, eventually the story would come out. I would look sympathetic to her, and when the time was right i would tell my story. She would become so involved in my story that hers would seem trivial. She would then applaud me for appearing so sympathetic to her story while mine was so much more tragic. We would connect on this. Our sad stories would resonate in our minds. We would look at each other as an answer to the question everyone on this island carry's with them. Why am i still here? I think she would like that. I think she would like a guy as sad as her. A guy who didn't quite fit in. A guy who only wanted to fit in with her.

Tonight

I'm sitting in a vacuum. Everything is being violently ripped into my direction. All sense of normalcy are being ripped from the average's mouth, and mutated into my consciousness. I steal their energy and make it my own. They look at me, expecting something, they can expect nothing less. I've become the event. I've stolen it from the owner. The owner is giving me the night. I don't know what to do with it, so i lie. I lie about horrible things. Until they are no longer looking at my appearance. I don't belong here, so i will make them feel like they don't belong here. The average's pine for more. I become placated. I sit there proud of what I've done. I drink more. I look at the owner. The owner is satisfied. The owner is relieved to take some of the tension from themselves. I can't stop. I know i should stop. But i can't. It's too far. They expect this now. I will destroy everything. I tell myself i will destroy everything. But all i destroy is what i am. It isn't what I am, but it is what the averages think i am. And perception is reality. They turn on me. They must be aware of what i've done. They are always aware of what I've done. Everyone is aware but me. All i can be aware of is the room. And pleasing them. The average's. When they turn on me it is violent. It is too strong to resist. Even those who can see the puppet show i am putting on mock the puppets. The puppets have been playing for so long now they become heavier and heavier. One day they will be released, but for now, i have to carry them. The weight of the puppets, is nothing compared to the weight of the average's. I give them an enemy. I give them a mirror. They shatter that mirror. Everytime. I pick the pieces up, and reconstruct the mirror, but it just gets shattered more and more. When they turn on me it hurts. But it's what i want. They have to hurt me, it is my purpose. The puppets are to be booed. Because they can never be cheered. The night is over now, and the owner walks me to the door. I wish to apologize, but i don't. It wouldn't make sense. The lion never apologized to the gazzelle. It is in it's nature.