Throughout the next two days he replays their conversation in his head, hoping to retain every last bit of information. Still, it slowly slips from his mind. He wonders about the stars, about insects, about politics, racism, revolution, friends and family, a place to call home, and things to be afraid of. He wonders who he should trust, who he should love, and whether he should go back to school. He wonders if he is happy. He wonders how long it will take him to feel happy inside himself. He wonders what happiness is. He wanders down neighborhood streets stopping at watering hole after watering hole, sipping hoppy maltwater and singing a song in his head. He wanders through a drunken city searching the eyes of strangers for some glimmer of acceptance. He wanders off the streets and finds himself in a place where darkness reigns, where rain falls as only a sound and ivy and moss consume all. He wonders. He wanders. He wants and wanes. He intends to write a comma, but writes a period. He carries a bag, yellow, with the words Tortugas Rum Cake Factory embroidered in red. Inside the bag there is a book. Inside the book there is a story of an entire city stricken with white blindness, each person and each person, one by one. Inside the bag there is also a journal, a journal that looks old but is new, with a leather cover elaborately designed with golden trim in abstract patterns. This was getting far too repetitive. It seemed best to leave it behind.
Posted on: Thu, 27 Nov 2014 04:23:12 +0000
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