odds n' ends
どこでもいいよ
I can tell you about the way I love elephant skin. The way I prefer smile lines and willowy hands. Or how I like to watch decay. The aesthetics of dilapidated buildings and abandoned train cars, riddled with overgrowth. But this is hypocrisy, a pretentious pity that no one wants. Or deserves. The art of living vicariously in a world where we learn cogito ergo sum in elementary school. A precocious kid with an existential crisis—laughable.
Let me liken you to elephants. A wish to become more thick-skinned. To carry on your back the weight of a dynasty and still play in puddles after rainy days. Whenever it showers, my kitchen is crawling with ants. I kill them so they do not contaminate the sponge cake sitting on the dining table. I do not always apologize; they call this second nature. So what is first nature—surely it has nothing to do with me. I do not even remember the first word I spoke. But there are no elephants in the city. I am not talking about those sad imitations locked behind metal bars, reinforced with sustenance to dance for children. A pretty glass menagerie. A carefully curated array of specimen referred to by academia as my generation. But we all know it's a farce. It's like social media, the way I plaster my smiling face all over my snap story for that one person to gauge my happiness. The way people do not cry in front of others. No, I am talking about the elephants that live in memory. The lazy glow of street lights on a foggy day. The colors you told me you liked. All forgettable. There is segregation in this passenger car. The watchers watch the sleepers while the sleepers dream of the watchers. Though this is not parity—the watchers feign superiority as they tread upon the more purposeful side of the boundary. I think about opening my eyes, but it is counterintuitive to lie to yourself when you lie to so many others already. Uptown houses monsters; downtown you may find security.
But he falls under neither category. His eyes are open, yet they do not see. Instead, they stare headlong into the murky blackness, trying to understand why he can read the words "this side out" printed on bulletproof glass. Where is in and where is out? A faulty installation. A day's toils easily relieved by a moment of tomfoolery—the thought of two dumb kids dancing in the dark. The light at the end of some tunnel is cliché, the mirage of midnight movies and songs set on perpetual replay. Both narrate the allure of prospects, yet this tunnel merely leads to the next stop. There is light everywhere. I follow his gaze, but he does not permit me entry into his private sanctuary. Perhaps he is thinking about the state of the universe. Or perhaps he is thinking about the apple he had for lunch. The voice from the intercom, a little robotic, reminds him too much of his mother. The last time he called her was four months ago. Once he aces his interview, he will buy her a summer house, invest in an android caretaker so that she can live more comfortably. There is a future for artificial intelligence yet, but it probably isn't today. The man next to me coughs and smells of something herbal. I wonder if he is willing to share if I ask nicely. An old fisherman hums a sea shanty that you remember from your childhood. The lyrics derive from words you cannot quite place, but you recall the image of whaling ships, the flicker of lighthouses, a lone yacht hat drifting in the breeze. You commend yourself for your own imagination, for this tune never belonged to you—you are a mere trespasser in disguise. But lethargic summer afternoons are ideal for storytelling, so you concoct a tale narrating its origins.
There was once an old man who lived by the sea. Once upon a time, he had a nice girl and a nice job, but lost both of them to the waters. He grew to loathe the sea—such a whimsical yet apathetic entity completely detached from the affairs of man—how arrogant indeed! He ultimately decided to take his own life, throwing himself into the waters. After the man took his last breath, the sea lost its voice: the seagulls ceased to sing, the waves fell as still as a mirror. For unbeknowst to him, the sea loved the old man, watched him grow from a small boy fascinated with jellyfish to a strong man resolved to protect the waters from oil tankers. So this particular sea never sang again. Instead, curious visitors sang in its stead, invented a sea shanty about an old man who once lived by the sea. And a large part of my childhood was probably subject to similar fabrications as well. But I would never know, since I would not be returning to that lone shore by the sea anytime soon. |
Authora little cynical & tired Archives
July 2019
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