Journal Entry
Whodunnit: The Mystery of the Disappearing Boy
I keep my eyes down. I try to remind myself not to; to keep my chin up, fake it til I make it, but eventually I will succumb to that hot, desperation clawing up the back of my neck and run.
"Everyone can see how out of place you are," they sneer.
I find it hard to convince myself that I'm that cool, untouchable person I picture in my head. Especially when my gaze wanders and rests on my shadow. Tall, dark, and mysterious it slides easily underfoot; flat and expressionless.
Unreadable.
Sometimes, I stare hard and will myself to meld into my silhouette. Maybe then, I think in a passive aggressive sort of way, I can feel like I am who I'm supposed to be.
I've been told that I'm too quiet, too loud, too much.
They say walking is just catching yourself again and again. Somehow, I can never trust that my feet will meet solid ground.
Whenever someone does bother to acknowledge me, I feel as if I've been caught up. My mouth moves fast. My eyes dart like flies. My breath hitches. Takes my shoulders with it. I feel like something wriggling at the end of a string. The truth tramples out of me, pushing me to the ground. I am swept away with the crowd.
** -----------------------------///////// --------------------------- **
Leaves that are allowed to collect on the sidewalk; big, dark, wet piles crushed down by foot traffic for a few days, will often leave behind their imprints on the cement. Hundreds of perfect copies graffiti the ground.
"You will not forget me.," They scream.
On those mornings that feel as fragile as a robins egg; when the sky's so severe and white it feels like it might swallow you, I lower my gaze, reverent as a friar, to the squares of sidewalk. I blink quickly to capture my millionth snap shot. Leaves and sticks and dirt scatter and scrape against the slabs and I am hungry for more. Gluttonous for the rich, otherworldly, bluish-greens and thick rusty oranges.
I take a deep breath and for a moment I feel how small and important I am.
** -----------------------------///////// --------------------------- **
"I think that's the closest I've ever gotten to the effects of a psychoactive drug. In those moments right before I fall asleep, and I forget you're actually there; I can just feel your touch, because you're so quiet; I can't hear your breathing, you just fade until all I know is your hands." says my lover.
I laugh.
It's in those foggy moments right before I slide into sleep that I let myself think about loving you.
I've been told many times that I'm like a ghost, a wisp, an apparition; appearing as blissful and ignorant as a dream. I remain something that's only tangible in the slivers of light that pierce through that blue darkness. Stark, and cold, and as lovely as ever.
