A Day Alone : Part Eighteen of Angel

 

 

ď . . . The void Iím falling into cannot be filled

It cannot be reached

You canít imagine itís real

 

This thing that is killing me
It eats from inside

Is the thing that is killing me
Is the word I have defied

 

I canít let you near
You canít begin to understand

These things that make it hard to think
That go hand in hand
. . .Ē

 

 

And the sound comes. Cars crunching on gravel. Laughter, metal latch release.

 

ďWait!Ē Someone shouts.

 

A car door shuts.

 

ďRight here!Ē Someone shouts again.

 

Laughter. Chatter. You sit inside and listen. Like a voyeur, you sit in front of the fireplace and collect the scenes and description that have never happened to you. Those things you can never experience. You can hear the click-clock-click-clock of heels against pavement. The tap of a cane against the pavement outside, in front of what you may soon enough call your home. The pavement with moss grout. You listen and watch as the scene sets itself.

 

I want to be back in Los Angeles. I feel alone in this place. I want to go back to the arcade where He offered me a soda. Only in my dreams. Last night. It seemed like a memory when I woke up. This new boy and I, weíve been seeing each other for a while now. And I think I know itís only a matter of time.

 

Until what?

 

Papers shuffle softly, as you move them aside from the keyboard. Itís more quiet in the den. It still feels lonely. You log on to the internet. In here, your anonymity makes you feel the same. The same silent sprawled out sounds. The same black on white, on blue lines, on jeans. Chair creaks. Keys tap. You listen to the whispering of the hard drive. And watch the loading bar slide across the screen again. The scene sets itself.

 

Through time, Iíve learned this boy is still in love. But the prevailing thought now is: time is relative. And so its passing holds no meaning. Thereís always time. And there always will be. Rome wasnít built in a day. So why worry?

 

I tell myself, let things run their course. So I come and lay with him. I come, and watch him watch me. I come to feel the hollowness echo with something that sounds like happiness. And I hope Iím setting the scene. And I think I know itís only a matter of time. As I watch, I feel like my ancestors; statue still, watching as the doe comes closer, mistaking me for some strange tree. Like the ancestor, who waits for the day to bring the songs of his work and the praise of the mother as he nurtures the seed to stalk.

 

Every time I see him, Iíve wanted to hold malice towards him. Like all the others. Feed mistrust and ripen hate. Heíll leave me, too. Iíve been awry lately. And I see my tormentor in everyone. I see the selfishness in everyone. I havenít been able to escape it yet. I hope Iím setting the scene.

 

A guitar patters softly. Children frolic loudly outside. An emo kid with a rustling, brown jacket circles a tree with the children. A cold chill shoots through you. Itís keeping beat with the tick, tick, tick of the clock on the wall, but throbbing and growing with your every breath. And you watch the blue, steel, 6-string, acoustic be strung. The scene sets itself.

 

This boy, he stands tall. Peach pale. With kind eyes and an ever-ready smile. If oaks were as thick and as tall as redwoods, he could be one of them. He seems perfect there, behind his smile. He seems perfect there, lying beside me. He seems pure, and simple in his intelligence, accepting. He seems gentle and caring.

 

Breathe. Collect your thoughts. Breathe deeply and move on.

 

My thoughts filled with him last night, before I went to sleep. He was there, holding me. Blowing softly on my pain. Kissing the scrapes on my heart. Keeping me safe until I fell sleep. Where he watched over me, even there.

 

And you listen to the words as they endlessly careen within. Your heart flutters just as fast as your fingers, both sending out an SOS. You try so hard to hold onto the feeling that youíve found what youíve needed. But that feeling just slips away into the void.