Sunday, July 07, 2002
The Others
There are more out there, he told her. You even know who some of them are. You are alone because that is our way. We cannot have you comparing notes on us. Each one of you is different; therefore, we are all different. You must trust me, you must keep your secrets, however hard on you that is. Rest assured that we have taken the form that allows us to remain a secret...your kind is skeptical and will not believe you. Do not search for others like you, otherwise there will be dire consequences. But then she has the vision: The man with the shoulder-lenth dark hair and goatee. A man who stands about 5'8" or 5'9". She has never seen this man before and she knows very little about him. If she were to run into him, she would know the look of his face. It is a gentle mask that hides the ferocity when it is needed. Somehow it seems that Black Jacket and he are related but more like they are foil of each other. She does not understand these things. And for everyone she's encountered, no one is on the level that she is. Her will for these kind of secrets is weak. She will tell anyone who listen...provided that she's drunk at the bar telling someone else of equal or greater drunkeness. This is how I ensure your secret, she spits back at Black Jacket, because you don't understand the difference between the dark drunkeness of night and the cold sobriety of day. You don't understand the culture I'm in. You don't understand that no one takes as law someone else's ramblings, as if these drunken ramblings would be remembered or believed in the light of day. Sober ramblings are met with such skepticism as well. So if I tell someone, what is the harm? But they are paranoid. No, they can't be ghosts. The ghosts welcome her with open arms: "I have a son, I never told him how much his drawings meant to me. He didn't have to be embarrassed that he couldn't afford to buy me anything. His artwork was enough. Oh, please, tell him that I love him...". Day in, day out. The souls that laugh at her as she stumbles a bit out of the bar. They're there all the time and don't make much of scene with her, only when such things are important. And then, Crazy Girl wonders how she was drafted to learn these things. She certainly didn't volunteer for it; she doesn't remember any flyers for this kind of thing. Why did they choose me? she wonders....
There are more out there, he told her. You even know who some of them are. You are alone because that is our way. We cannot have you comparing notes on us. Each one of you is different; therefore, we are all different. You must trust me, you must keep your secrets, however hard on you that is. Rest assured that we have taken the form that allows us to remain a secret...your kind is skeptical and will not believe you. Do not search for others like you, otherwise there will be dire consequences. But then she has the vision: The man with the shoulder-lenth dark hair and goatee. A man who stands about 5'8" or 5'9". She has never seen this man before and she knows very little about him. If she were to run into him, she would know the look of his face. It is a gentle mask that hides the ferocity when it is needed. Somehow it seems that Black Jacket and he are related but more like they are foil of each other. She does not understand these things. And for everyone she's encountered, no one is on the level that she is. Her will for these kind of secrets is weak. She will tell anyone who listen...provided that she's drunk at the bar telling someone else of equal or greater drunkeness. This is how I ensure your secret, she spits back at Black Jacket, because you don't understand the difference between the dark drunkeness of night and the cold sobriety of day. You don't understand the culture I'm in. You don't understand that no one takes as law someone else's ramblings, as if these drunken ramblings would be remembered or believed in the light of day. Sober ramblings are met with such skepticism as well. So if I tell someone, what is the harm? But they are paranoid. No, they can't be ghosts. The ghosts welcome her with open arms: "I have a son, I never told him how much his drawings meant to me. He didn't have to be embarrassed that he couldn't afford to buy me anything. His artwork was enough. Oh, please, tell him that I love him...". Day in, day out. The souls that laugh at her as she stumbles a bit out of the bar. They're there all the time and don't make much of scene with her, only when such things are important. And then, Crazy Girl wonders how she was drafted to learn these things. She certainly didn't volunteer for it; she doesn't remember any flyers for this kind of thing. Why did they choose me? she wonders....
# posted by Crazy Girl @ 13:42 
