This little collective trill of a universe is just a small little shell of wavy bits, of so-called energies and atoms. What I wouldn’t give to just be a single dot on paper and end one hell of a sentence with my very presence.
But I’m a dreamer and I can’t help but feel tiny and pulled apart, like some sort of human sandwich all wrapped up in the fridge waiting for some hungry bastard to eat me whole and leave my crusts behind.
The world doesn’t matter.
My feelings matter.
What I put in my mouth matters, since most days I can’t even taste anything.
Sometimes I mimic the rest of the world, especially the bearded man on the corner of Sunset & Vermont. He’s in the hubbub scrunched between all the nurses, doctors, immigrants and joggers. He usually has earphones on, and most mornings I catch him bobbing his head up and down to whatever the fuck he’s listening to. He looks around, self-conscious, and resumes. He does this over and over again until my light turns green and I leave him behind.
All of his belongings fit in a small suitcase, and he’s smoking and tapping his hands on his knees, just like me. Using them like claves, playing along with the orchestra in his ear. I’m doing the same thing, only I’m tapping my steering wheel stuck inside this hunk of metal that’s served its purpose in all its sad glory.
I’m also looking around, like a scared little girl; six years old on most days. I wear sunglasses to turn everyone into a lovely shade of purple, and I can mouth my favourite lyrics and puff on my cigarette, pretending that he and I are listening to the same song cause our hands are moving in sync.
I feel like getting out of my car in the middle of traffic and walking the rest of the way.
Instead, we both move on.
I drive towards my tall building, and he sits amongst them.