wangjes
You loathe the people who walk along the street, the ones who pass the kids, settled on the curb with their baseball caps out, the silvered statues holding delicately still until someone drops a dollar into their hat—they instantly burst into action, dancing, changing a pose, then freezing solidly again until the next passerby. It's very beautiful, very lonely, very sad...the sort of thing that you enjoy, you guess.
"Shit," is all he can think. Shit shit shit shit shit. Because he's going to be late, AGAIN, and this time being late isn't acceptable. "Coming through," he yells, shoving through crowds, ducking beneath displays, posters peeling off of the walls. He'd be conspicuous if he were anywhere but in New York, where men flying down subway platforms in tuxedoes are apparently commonplace and unremarkable.
There wasn't anybody who hated you. You were quite sure of this—there'd been polls, definitely, and there'd never been any hate mail. You got standing ovations every performance, millions of fans swaying in the pit. You'd never had to market much—each ticket would be sold out in seconds, then each tour would be sold out in seconds, and soon enough you realized you didn't even have to try, really, didn't have to always go and do giveaways and interviews if you didn't want to, didn't even have to reply to Twitter. How dare all these nobodies wish to speak to you?
They lay all in neat rows down the sides of the tables, and they seemed to be listening in on the conversation. Not that there was anything important being said—just words about the weather, Aunt Marge's new boyfriend, twenty years her junior, etc, etc. That was mostly what they could bring themselves to talk about. Easy, scandalous stuff—conversation that glided over the surface easily, never dipping below the waves.
He's not very tall, not very short, and most people don't bother checking the tag pinned to his red lapel. In fact, it's a situation so ideal that he can barely believe it.
The first door on the right is locked, of course, but he has the key, and easily gains access to the room. He has a gun, of course—but guns are noisy, bothersome
It's yellow, glinting, and even far away you sense a sort of distance about it. There are no monks, no laughter; only quietude and a sense of decay, of everything falling apart the closer you get inside. The walls close in on either side, squeezing the life gently out of you, until you become a wisp of air entangled with the smoky incense. It smells like secrecy
There's something so lovely about her face in the lights under the halloween jack-o-lantern. When everything falls apart a second later—as you knew it would, things like this don't last—you don't really react to anything, there's just a print of her face in your mind, you remembering, and even when everything unfolds and everything ends, you
I will make this speech, and I will made this the best damn thing that you've ever heard. And I will move masses, and I will rearrange the stars and our orbits on Earth because it'll be that good. It will. I mean this. And I will take over my universe and feel comfortable inside myself, and write well and sing well and dance well and do whatever I want. I mean it.
There's one down by the end of the road, where the rich intersect with the poor, where the sidewalk ends. It's a quiet place during the day, with light filtering through and sweeping the floor clean and the minister delivering his sermons to a congregation of burnished pews. It's very nice, almost too nice, as if they've wanted to ensure that we see only light, not darkness, in God.
it's overtly displayed, but it's important, it's dear to you—so overt, though, that it could be fake, it could be hiding in plain sight. Or it could not be. It's difficult to say, but all the same you've never been able to give up the doubts that you carry around all day, every day, to everyone.
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writing since 2014 · 13 entries · 13 days shown up
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the words Jessica reaches for
shitniceboxothersconversationknowinglockedironicartgodbeautifulmindimportantendslightmean