So why am I repulsed by change [001 open]
Like any other normal man, he enjoys the smaller things in life. Getting up in the morning, rising to the sun's atmospheric greeting. Walking down a hall, groggily, sleepily, but knowing that the day is open to new life, new virtue. Opening the fridge, grabbing the whole carton of milk and sloppily drinking it's insides and allowing passage of the liquid down one's chin. Getting ready. Leaving. Experiencing the day and trying to configure a new way of outlook, a new approach to seeing how exactly the universe works.
These aspects are the start of his daily life, the entrance to each and every twenty four hours of time he lives, day by day. He appreciates them, relishes in their glory and wouldn't have it any other way. Excitement and thrill is one thing to go by, but being a person of such borderline nature, he figures the way he does it is the way it should be.
He despises getting riled up.
Those who live in a more sporadic fashion tend to get involved with things that they may or may not want. From the people he knows, or as should be said, knew- the life of busyness is the life of dramatic incisions. Those who go by it tend to titter on the stressed realm and either are absolutely insane or near verge of going it. He, as someone who already had quite the label of being a madman, refuses to take on that sport. He can't deal with being upset or angry all the time. He already does that without the influence of problems and issues caused by friends or family.
This all being taken into account, it should be of no surprise that he's off in the belly of the inner city; placed outside at a table of a small restaurant, cigarette tightly knit between his fingers as he watches the works of the world. He's been here for about a solid hour and a half, doing nothing more and nothing less than smoking the entirety of his pack while he wastes the afternoon away. It's safe to say he's relaxed, tranquilized by the nicotine he inhales and chilled by the iced plastic cup of soda he occasionally sips.
Of course as he is destined to forever grow annoyed or aggressive, he finds himself inclining in adrenaline as the most recent stick of tobacco is flicked and either completely chars a passerby's arm or almost does it.
His first instinct is to blame them.
They shouldn't have walked by when he threw the damn thing.
With an immense amount of self control, however, he merely curls back the top of his lip into a snarl and stares at the invader, eyebrows knit and teeth glistening against the sun's rays. He wants to get up and leave, to stomp off in another direction and go home so he can throw himself on his couch, be isolated and secure while he picks up a book to soothe himself with. But he doesn't. He won't. Giving into his rage would go against what he's been fighting against for so long. If he gave up now all the years and all the work he did to learn how to discipline himself would be wasted. He would be stupid to stop at this point of time.
So he remains where he is sat and instead of picking the table up or throwing it at them, then storming off like a complete asshole, he begins to speak; strong, bold and painfully forced.
"Should be careful where you're going. Didn't mean to hit you."
