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He sat in confusion. What had happened? What was inside now? He stared past the dreary rain, matters swirling around the contradictory mind. The car moved along, towards the row of houses, the temporary gag he didn't want on his emotion.
Inside were people he didn't want to see or know. Put on a smile and think. He sat at a table and drank. Painfully talking back to people who never saw him anyway. Others he liked but were nothing to the nagging confusion in himself. Why did that matter so much? How could she be so free of it all, so exempt from any kind of rule that she imposed on him?
He started to help lay the table. Chilli con carne, with a nice salad. A small smile brushed accross his face as somebody spoke to him. What? He was handed a pair of gloves. Make conversation. Remove plates from oven. The kitchen was oddly cold. He sat back at the table and drank some more, but he was feeling cold too. A call. He moved back to the food and ate, exchanhing the pleasantries he despised to secure something he neither wanted nor needed. He looked up. A beautiful watercolour painting hung above his fathers head. It was of the valley he had always lived in. His heart surged, he loved it. He could see where he had been as a child, and then as a teenager. Never. Never with anyone. He was sad like that. What was she doing? What were they all doing? Why did he care? He said he didn't so many times.
He looked at the painting many more times throughout the meal. He kept on seeing places he wanted to go with somebody, just to be. He saw the vilage he lived in, realised how lucky he was to live there. Why? What? Somebody asked him a question. He was to deep in thought. He was sad like that. What in hell did she want with him? She had said so many hurtful things to him, talked of herself to him, always using her rules, and when he did, it was wrong, she joked, she mocked, she never accepted sincerity and honesty, always the superficiliaty. He smiled. He didn't want her at all. Then she apologised. And he melted, fell away, broke into a million pieces, and gave in. Later he was mocked. Never with someone. He came back to life, and realised he was eating some ice cream. He was sad like that.
He sat in the kitchen, reading of superstars and their lives, their torments, their 'troubles'. His grandfather came in, bad back and all. Always cold that man, but he knew he meant well. Contradictory, like her and all of them. All of them but a few, none for me. Never, ever for me. He was crying in his head. Whats wrong? Universitys, qualifications, music, orders, played past him from the old man. He stared at a painting of two fish on the wall. Red walls. He was wandering now.
He got into the car, pleasantries needlessly exchanged, smiles falsely accepted. Swirl. He stared at the rain, never, alone, stared. Then he sat down and wrote this post, and wondered what the hell he was doing, and what in hell it means.
Nothing he supposes.
I don't know.
------
Inside were people he didn't want to see or know. Put on a smile and think. He sat at a table and drank. Painfully talking back to people who never saw him anyway. Others he liked but were nothing to the nagging confusion in himself. Why did that matter so much? How could she be so free of it all, so exempt from any kind of rule that she imposed on him?
He started to help lay the table. Chilli con carne, with a nice salad. A small smile brushed accross his face as somebody spoke to him. What? He was handed a pair of gloves. Make conversation. Remove plates from oven. The kitchen was oddly cold. He sat back at the table and drank some more, but he was feeling cold too. A call. He moved back to the food and ate, exchanhing the pleasantries he despised to secure something he neither wanted nor needed. He looked up. A beautiful watercolour painting hung above his fathers head. It was of the valley he had always lived in. His heart surged, he loved it. He could see where he had been as a child, and then as a teenager. Never. Never with anyone. He was sad like that. What was she doing? What were they all doing? Why did he care? He said he didn't so many times.
He looked at the painting many more times throughout the meal. He kept on seeing places he wanted to go with somebody, just to be. He saw the vilage he lived in, realised how lucky he was to live there. Why? What? Somebody asked him a question. He was to deep in thought. He was sad like that. What in hell did she want with him? She had said so many hurtful things to him, talked of herself to him, always using her rules, and when he did, it was wrong, she joked, she mocked, she never accepted sincerity and honesty, always the superficiliaty. He smiled. He didn't want her at all. Then she apologised. And he melted, fell away, broke into a million pieces, and gave in. Later he was mocked. Never with someone. He came back to life, and realised he was eating some ice cream. He was sad like that.
He sat in the kitchen, reading of superstars and their lives, their torments, their 'troubles'. His grandfather came in, bad back and all. Always cold that man, but he knew he meant well. Contradictory, like her and all of them. All of them but a few, none for me. Never, ever for me. He was crying in his head. Whats wrong? Universitys, qualifications, music, orders, played past him from the old man. He stared at a painting of two fish on the wall. Red walls. He was wandering now.
He got into the car, pleasantries needlessly exchanged, smiles falsely accepted. Swirl. He stared at the rain, never, alone, stared. Then he sat down and wrote this post, and wondered what the hell he was doing, and what in hell it means.
Nothing he supposes.
I don't know.
------
That sounded like it was a stagnant get-together....?
He sat in confusion. What had happened? What was inside now? He stared past the dreary rain, matters swirling around the contradictory mind. The car moved along, towards the row of houses, the temporary gag he didn't want on his emotion.
Inside were people he didn't want to see or know. Put on a smile and think. He sat at a table and drank. Painfully talking back to people who never saw him anyway. Others he liked but were nothing to the nagging confusion in himself. Why did that matter so much? How could she be so free of it all, so exempt from any kind of rule that she imposed on him?
He started to help lay the table. Chilli con carne, with a nice salad. A small smile brushed accross his face as somebody spoke to him. What? He was handed a pair of gloves. Make conversation. Remove plates from oven. The kitchen was oddly cold. He sat back at the table and drank some more, but he was feeling cold too. A call. He moved back to the food and ate, exchanhing the pleasantries he despised to secure something he neither wanted nor needed. He looked up. A beautiful watercolour painting hung above his fathers head. It was of the valley he had always lived in. His heart surged, he loved it. He could see where he had been as a child, and then as a teenager. Never. Never with anyone. He was sad like that. What was she doing? What were they all doing? Why did he care? He said he didn't so many times.
He looked at the painting many more times throughout the meal. He kept on seeing places he wanted to go with somebody, just to be. He saw the vilage he lived in, realised how lucky he was to live there. Why? What? Somebody asked him a question. He was to deep in thought. He was sad like that. What in hell did she want with him? She had said so many hurtful things to him, talked of herself to him, always using her rules, and when he did, it was wrong, she joked, she mocked, she never accepted sincerity and honesty, always the superficiliaty. He smiled. He didn't want her at all. Then she apologised. And he melted, fell away, broke into a million pieces, and gave in. Later he was mocked. Never with someone. He came back to life, and realised he was eating some ice cream. He was sad like that.
He sat in the kitchen, reading of superstars and their lives, their torments, their 'troubles'. His grandfather came in, bad back and all. Always cold that man, but he knew he meant well. Contradictory, like her and all of them. All of them but a few, none for me. Never, ever for me. He was crying in his head. Whats wrong? Universitys, qualifications, music, orders, played past him from the old man. He stared at a painting of two fish on the wall. Red walls. He was wandering now.
He got into the car, pleasantries needlessly exchanged, smiles falsely accepted. Swirl. He stared at the rain, never, alone, stared. Then he sat down and wrote this post, and wondered what the hell he was doing, and what in hell it means.
Nothing he supposes.
I don't know.
------
Inside were people he didn't want to see or know. Put on a smile and think. He sat at a table and drank. Painfully talking back to people who never saw him anyway. Others he liked but were nothing to the nagging confusion in himself. Why did that matter so much? How could she be so free of it all, so exempt from any kind of rule that she imposed on him?
He started to help lay the table. Chilli con carne, with a nice salad. A small smile brushed accross his face as somebody spoke to him. What? He was handed a pair of gloves. Make conversation. Remove plates from oven. The kitchen was oddly cold. He sat back at the table and drank some more, but he was feeling cold too. A call. He moved back to the food and ate, exchanhing the pleasantries he despised to secure something he neither wanted nor needed. He looked up. A beautiful watercolour painting hung above his fathers head. It was of the valley he had always lived in. His heart surged, he loved it. He could see where he had been as a child, and then as a teenager. Never. Never with anyone. He was sad like that. What was she doing? What were they all doing? Why did he care? He said he didn't so many times.
He looked at the painting many more times throughout the meal. He kept on seeing places he wanted to go with somebody, just to be. He saw the vilage he lived in, realised how lucky he was to live there. Why? What? Somebody asked him a question. He was to deep in thought. He was sad like that. What in hell did she want with him? She had said so many hurtful things to him, talked of herself to him, always using her rules, and when he did, it was wrong, she joked, she mocked, she never accepted sincerity and honesty, always the superficiliaty. He smiled. He didn't want her at all. Then she apologised. And he melted, fell away, broke into a million pieces, and gave in. Later he was mocked. Never with someone. He came back to life, and realised he was eating some ice cream. He was sad like that.
He sat in the kitchen, reading of superstars and their lives, their torments, their 'troubles'. His grandfather came in, bad back and all. Always cold that man, but he knew he meant well. Contradictory, like her and all of them. All of them but a few, none for me. Never, ever for me. He was crying in his head. Whats wrong? Universitys, qualifications, music, orders, played past him from the old man. He stared at a painting of two fish on the wall. Red walls. He was wandering now.
He got into the car, pleasantries needlessly exchanged, smiles falsely accepted. Swirl. He stared at the rain, never, alone, stared. Then he sat down and wrote this post, and wondered what the hell he was doing, and what in hell it means.
Nothing he supposes.
I don't know.
------