Wednesday, August 19, 2015

rusty chains and neon dreams

The day held on with rusty hooks and chains. Old wounds bore the familiar weight of consistent concession. A busted radio and long taupe drive home registered as null, a temporal suspension of being.

He tried to shake off the day, to smile at the ivy painting he found in that garage sale: purple, pink and vividly surreal. He tried to shed all the small lies and become once again a human being.

As 40 hours had turned to weeks and months and long vacant years, it became a decreasingly possible task.

His books felt too light in his fingers and music rang hollow in his mind. Television seemed a voided prospect and even Hitchcock portended an empty enterprise.

His listless gaze continued to trail towards the painting in the foyer. Broad, obvious brushstrokes begged the eye to follow the vivid energy of the ivy’s unreal neon being. It was a lesson of intent and procedure and vitality that clamored to be learnt.

Hadn’t Susan, his ex, left a bunch of nail polish under the bathroom sink?

Bill shot up and rushed down the hall, the hint of an unfamiliar grin twisting at his cheek.

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