Saturday, August 21, 2010

This is you.

It's amazing how many words you can speak without actually saying anything.

Endless rambles in attempts to connect a 3-pronged plug to a 2-slotted socket. Endless nights of hollow laughs and empty folly. Wrong words, wrong people, wrong places. And then you walk back home, trying not to admit it to yourself, but realizing deep down that somewhere in there, you're asking

Because in the end, you ultimately realize how much you wasted the precious time that ticked away through the cracks between your sore fingers, tired from playing the strings of the instruments that were not yours to play, melodies that you did not enjoy hearing. And then you realize that the more you speak, the less you sound like you and the more you sound like the tall, brunette down the street who owned a silver Lexus that her father bought for her, that beautiful, shiny car that you looked for on her driveway every time your mother drove you home from school. But, of course, it was rarely ever there because she was rarely ever home, and that upset you more than anything. No, it wasn't because you were jealous, you told yourself. Not at all.

But the more you speak, the less you sound like her and the more you sound like the girl in your economics class who used to always pick at her purple nail polish and talk about boyfriends she didn't have until her sister died in a freakish highway accident after running into a cement truck and getting suffocated in wet cement.

And your words disgust you, so you run to the sink and brush your teeth and wash your face, trying desperately and futilely to wash off the layer of skin that's not yours because it makes you itch terribly. And you realize you can't even remember the name of the nice boy with the red hair who sat there quietly, the one you ignored because he couldn't get you a six-pack and because he drove a slow car, not a fast one, and wasn't eager to hand out his number in a heartbeat like the others were.

So you crawl into bed, a tangled marionette, telling yourself that you won't do this again, but knowing that you will anyways because you don't know how else to do things and you're much, much too frightened to wake up and realize that it's okay to be alone because nobody ever told you it was.

This is you, loquacious friend.

1 comment:

  1. It's ironic to have a comment in response to this, considering the topic...but I get it, on a level I don't like to visit because it's so damn raw. It's where I have to admit I'm as fucked up as everyone else or as broken or lost. In my own way, I get it.


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