Tuesday, June 9, 2015

vanishing point

He could disappear. It took no effort, anymore. He was losing control.

Walking alone, down crowded halls, he just slipped away. A naked eye, he was. He could see. He could not understand.

They kept on flitting, to and fro, singing, laughing, crying, hoping, dreaming, repressing, forcing back truths, eagerly eating lies. They just kept on in their mysterious dances.

He could not hear their melody. He’d watched for so long, unseen; he scarcely noticed when he was no longer quite there.

He could not affect the world when he was like this. Not that he affected the world much, anyway.

Sometimes he drifted to the teacher’s lounge. He watched them drink the black, bitter antidote to sleep. He saw how they sucked fire through tubes and sent carcinogenic smoke down their throats. If he looked hard enough, he could see the small, sad pleasure in their blinking eyes.

If he could make it before the door crashed closed, he could watch the girls cry alone behind bathroom stalls. This was dangerous.

If he saw too closely, he would be reminded of himself. He would be visible. He could be caught.

But there was little point in looking without seeing.

It mattered little, he thought. He hadn’t seen himself in ages. He was not certain he was still there.










No comments:

Post a Comment