I like the world a lot better when nighttime rolls around. It's like the darkness covers the earth in a specific silence, a particular emptiness that is both isolating and inviting. I was sitting on the ledge of the brownstone's rooftop, dangling my feet over the edge. It's been so long since I felt like a kid, it was time I revisited it.
"Do you ever think about time?" I asked my friend laying next to me. I meant time in the sense of the infinite; that time continued regardless of what we had to say about it. It never ceased to trouble me that my mere existence didn't even register on the grand scale of time, the universe, and everything. I get what, 70 years before I wave goodbye to a life led living alone? Is it even worth it? Should I even see it out to the end? 6 billion people on earth.... its an easy thing to feel like a face in a crowd, especially when the crowd is tiny, on the edge of the universe, where our existence wouldn't even trouble our immediate surroundings.
"It's 1:45." She replied, clearly not understanding my sentiment.
"I meant time on a vaster scale, more like, how we try to pin it down through clocks and calendars, but only ever wind up with a brief delusion of control. Whether we like it or not, time goes on, we age, but time doesn't."
She sighed, shook her head. She didn't like it when I got this way, thinking about "depressing stuff". She wanted to maintain her façade of simple happiness and pleasure as long as she could. Nothing existential there, she wanted to live exclusively in the concrete. Time is negotiable through clocks and calendars, and in New Zealand, it's tomorrow. I wonder how many other people are experiencing this same feeling, in a similar conversation, on another rooftop? Too many to comfort my thoughts of unoriginality.
"Things get a lot easier when you just accept them as fact." She told me, reassuring. She sat up and moved closer to me, leaned into my shoulder. Her touch was electric, set my nerve endings on fire, gave me goosebumps. I wanted her to know I loved her, but I couldn't do that to her. She continued. "Of course time goes on, forever, vast and infinite. But there's no real reason to trouble yourself over the time you get to experience it all. You live, you die- it's always been that way. What more do you want? Your life is more important than you think.... you get to make it your own, regardless of what happens to you."
I took her words in carefully, her voice like honey, her reassurance guiding. I suppose that somewhere I felt better about what she said; it just didn't register right now. I guess I wouldn't truly believe it until I found that out for myself. I can't just be told things and accept them right off the bat, I need to get there myself. I put on a smile and turned to look her in the eye, and she met my glance. She smiled warmly back, some pleading in her eyes; she wanted me to feel better, to feel that I mattered. I suppose I'm getting there.
My smile turned apologetic as I took out my pack of cigarettes, picked one out, put it to my lips. I put the pak away and reached for my lighter on the floor (roof?) behind me. I panicked when i didn't immediately find it. I turned back around to her to ask if she'd seen it. She was holding it in her hand, a serious look on her face. "You know what I think of these" she said.
"I can't help it, and I just want to release a little." I retorted. She frowned, her forehead crinkling. "Don't do that," I whispered.
"What?" "Frown that way, it ruins your face." "My face?" "Yeah, your face, your beautiful face." She let the frown drop, and I took the lighter from her fingers, lit up. She lay back down, closed her eyes. I lay down and rested my head on top of her stomach, pulling on my cigarette. I blew up, exhaling the smoke, watched it drift and swirl away, fleeting and beautiful, fluid and graceful, expiring too soon for anyone to realize it. I imagined my life as a stream of smoke, and I was calm. I closed my eyes and drifted.
She interrupted the silence. "So you think my face is beautiful?....."
I smiled, my eyes still closed. Maybe it was worth it after all.
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I really liked your story. It reminds me alot of you. I don't know if this is related to something that actually happened but you made it easy for me to visualize this scene. But I must say it isn't cool to smoke.
ReplyDeleteAs expected from John Galt. This story a...maybe not "alternative" but a less popular view on "cool." I think that if more people valued deep and meaningful conversations like your character (and you) over fresh kicks, our world will be way better, way smarter place to live in.
ReplyDeleteYour story was, of course, articulate. I don't really gotta talk about that for you or anybody else to be aware of that. Yeah...so...great story. I think this is definitely up there amongst the stories that people wrote for the PePo class.
A good short story, with a little romance which i haven't seen so far. There wasn't one part of the story i didn't like. Now is smoking cool? I thought that the character kind of put himself down on the cool list because he smoked. The girl that he loved seemed unhappy with the smoking, obviously his image matters in front of her. Was it uncool from the girl's point of view? The questions that the main character asked were hard questions that require thinking. Is there are archetype for your main character that he might fit into? Love the story, can't believe it only took you like 30 mins to write in 101.
ReplyDeleteI also really enjoyed you story, especially since your character was far more insightful then most. A reoccurring archetype that keeps reappearing in others blogs are attractive physical demeanor and intelligence, but not so much deep thought....
ReplyDelete(continue this later)
You ever seen Almost Famous?
ReplyDeleteYou should see it.