Trains rush past me, stirring up breeze to lift my spirits. Pink haired girl with a soft and friendly smile, my sweet melody with perfumed words. Drunk on honey, drunk on you, and whiling away the time until I die.
Pain is something that really speaks to me, so sick of living in generalities. Fingers against the charm around my wrist, glance down, it is time to go. Waiting is the hardest part – hours, weeks, years, days. Have a smoke, have a drink, drown your sorrows and try to lift your head off the pillow every morning. It should have been easy, but instead I stood there, unmoving like a coward. I watched you take the leap.
Two lives down, but I’m still living.
And all it would take is one step forward to end our separation.
A train is coming, the shadows, the raindrops, ticking away my time. Hoping it’ll run out soon. Go on. Step forward. Third time’s the charm.
Waiting is the hardest part, hours, days, weeks, years.
Back to the wall, have a smoke, take a drink. Gonna be here for a while.
There is no easy way to waste your time alive. So spend as much of it as you can, on the hard ways.
Take a chance, to have a chance, unromantic and distasteful. Keep up the wanderlust, you’ll have time to dwell when you’re dead. Existence is a conflagration, we burn in hell every day. Never more apparent a fact, than when standing before a moving train, watching the minutes ticking by in shadows and raindrops.
She smiles, brushes back her hair. Bubblegum pink, reassuring smile. Bright blue eyes, warm as rain. Half step towards her, and she offers me the world. Or, what she sells of it. I tell her my name, she jokes about my radioactivity. Smile and laugh, nod, listen intently as she speaks. Her name eludes me, like a good riddle. It perfumes her words, and I wistfully drown in her melody as she says it.
Offer me the world, I’ve only got a tenner, and in my shaky mezzo, I offer you everything I have. You give me back twenty-five cents and call us even. The small kiosk, a third of it covered in magazines, clouds out the rain. Another in the line, I step away, she calls me back. Come again, please.
Take a step… turn.
Two lives down, and onto my third.
“What time do you get off work?”
I never moved.
Step back, take a breath.
Small city, crowded with nothingness.
Thick rain ashes out the world around the station.
Nothing around me even worth my time to look at.
Begin to walk, try not to think too much, try not to think.
Walking, away from the edge of the platform, away from the train.
Taking failure, walking away, learning from my mistakes until next time.
Then, something catches my eye, and I can’t help but stop in my tracks and, take a step…
Rain is something that really speaks to me. The way it blankets a city, stains it wet, floods the gutters and pours from the roofs. People scurry about, always gotta do something. Real life is all productivity and time-management, pretending we have deeper stories to tell than we do. Pretend like we have had adventures and excitement.
No-one I know ever just lives in generalities, they never go with the flow. Life is a negative-sum game, either you hit that perfect agreement or we all suffer.
Disagreements run deeper than general life philosophy. Sitting on a train, people tend to romanticise the stories of other people’s lives. Or they fantasize about their ideal. Never live it, never let themselves be happy. I know because I’m one of them.
No point denying it, life is not something worth living. But I’m twice a failure.
Stepping out onto the platform, waiting until the train leaves, stand there watching until another is coming. Take a step…
Teeth hurt from all the kicking, ass sore from all the sitting. Another day another dime, lost in space and time. Fires still burning, stomach’s churning. Watch the embers settle on the ground, the winds whip up and die. You are by my side. Nothing ventured means nothing gained, and things can never be the same. So let me know just how you feel, and how to live beyond. I can’t go on without you, that’s how I feel. As we stood against the flames, your hand in mine, your lips pursed and you began to cry. Tears of joy, that we survived. There can be no more heartfelt a confession, I love you until the day the midnight sun reclaims us all. You lift me up, you hold me high, I can almost feel the starglow. Radiation stains me, warm as love but never to lay me low. And to you I will openly admit that I will love you – no matter how hard the fall. This is my profession.
Of their being. Dragged into the street. Unceremonious, fires burning. Half-naked, all afraid. Left out in the cold, boot to the throat. Gun pressed against the back of my head. My heart is pounding. Waking, still on fire. Watching as the world burns down. Ashes, tongues of fire, licking. Nightmares pass like a floating cloud, the vapours of which form an untender fog. Choke me in my dreams, I’d rather die there than watch this. Their hand wraps around my fingers, I don’t even think to shield myself from the morning dew that boils away at our skin. I am already marked black, sweating away the evils. Laid bare, their house burns down. Only a joke comes to mind, but I swallow it down in poor taste.
Midnight sun, organic chemistry. Drink deep, heady cocktail of hormones. Never had a chance. Kiss me once, shame on you. Broken rules of social norms. Find it hard to really give a shit, they can kick down our door and take us away. Kind of hard to even care. Kiss me twice, shame on me. Honour is a laughable concept anyway. In the moment, lost. In the moment, escaping. Forsaken but not yet dead, we live for in the moment. Underneath the midnight sun, dressed in suits and drunk on hope. There’s no quitting this now.
Midnight in mid-urbia. Domesticated animals prowl the streets. Street-lamps flicker. Cars line the asphalt. Driving home from the shops, chicken stink washed down by star-light air. Oxygen rich, poor in everything else, two enter a cold house. No lights, no need. Ninja up the creaky stairs. Sit silent, devouring the burgers and cola. Not the best kind of date, but one of them. Being together more than makes up for it. Dawn in the window, finish dinner. Lie on down, the bed is soft. Forbidden romance, chicken dinner. There is probably a metaphor in there.
2017-10-02. 98 words.
Irradiated parking space, the night sky’s skin bleeds points of light through soft vapour. Thick concrete, asphalt, metal boxes lining the streets. Step from parlour to park, medicinal light floods the shop where the chickens burn. Greasy animals, the sun slowly cooks everyone, others cannot wait. Find a way to beat the heat death, randomly generate entropy in your innards. Sit on the hood of a car, metal metaphors for parts unknown. Huff cigarettes, puff clouds. Soft fucking dreams of middle-urbian chicken shops and waiting on an animal to walk back into life. Chicken burgers, coca-cola. Life unromantic.