MEAD

This part of a story I wrote kind of speaks about the end of a day of school. I'm being cynical and I'm not sure if everyone will get my view point. I'm really just trying to understand myself further as a senior in highschool.

After the lessons had ended he re-gathered with his friends, drawn to a point like birds to the seed, anxious to devour the landscape yet again and chirp on the events in the day. It would be almost wholly animalistic if it weren’t for the fact that this primitive instinct was realized and a conscious thought. That became unimportant though, for as much as some made of this “herd” mentality they did nothing to affect it and rather realized its’ entertainment value.

David approached:

“Ah there he is, just they guy I wanted to see.” He said

“Why’s that?” Dave responded

“Oh, I don’t know. No reason really, I just wanted to say that to someone today.”

“Really? Well then, glad I could be ‘That Guy’ for ya then.”

“Yes, your role as that guy was resounding. I can’t begin to thank you enough”

“ Hey there’s Mark”

Conversation faltered, died, and moved on. The topics were only limited by the ability of the speaker to hold one’s mind hostage. They were often irreverent.

There was Dave, Jim and Himself:

“Jim, do an impression of, umm, a protestor in Alabama in the 1960’s, a black student in the race riots” he said.

Jim thought then did his impression.

“ Oh man! That was hilarious, great stuff man!” he applauded

“Yeah but that was horrible man. I can’t believe you did that and I laughed. I’m terrible” Dave admitted.

It was Dave’s turn to be the one to show compassion while the others, he and Jim, went on. There was a fine balance.

“Ah yes, I know it’s bad. Okay now do Martin Luther King and, uh, JFK ” he said.

Jim proceeded.

“Oh man that’s even worse” he injected.

“Were such racists, were going straight to hell for this.” Dave said.

“I know but it’s funny” he said.

“Ah, but it’s so mean” Dave responded.

“Alright. Here’s my impression of Tupac”, announced Dave to them.

“You have been trying to think of that the whole time haven’t you, Dave, I know, I could tell ‘cause I’d be doing the same thing.” He said

The less important left and the few that always sat to chat further, including himself, now knew their fate again and wondered how long till it was acceptable to leave. It was this thought that was strained almost to its’ breaking point and it was the laughter of courtesy which feared the trials of a ticking silence. That they knew it was for the best was the damnable fact. So he spoke and they grimaced. In time, like clockwork, the wall of anxious strangers from foreign and unattainable thoughts passed and went home.
When he arrived home the dense fog of sleep had already laid to rest just behind his eyes, which now hung half shuttered. The actions, which need to be performed in that haze, hung around him, limp, like a sandbag and punished his body as he drove it to feed the dogs, fix the sheets, study, rest, get up and eat.
When he finally finished or ignored all obligations he laid down in bed. His body sunk into the sheets and his mind awoke as a most dangerous thing. Thoughts of dissatisfactions washed over the creased fields of his brain. They fell in an unremarkable shower as if everything went black then, as expected, a little white. As the gray waters flowed into pools and settled, bubbling, light colors beneath were revealed. He began to explore the pools, starting at one and anxious to ponder the next and the next, and another and another. He knew that they could be endless if he wanted -this was no comfort- and wondered where they ended now. He pushed on trying to put the blinders on his thought, almost losing his self to an impetuous anger that wanted to unravel the numb gaze driven into his face. His thoughts were of the day and he couldn’t resist the old temptation of feeling poetically alone. He could be happier if it was his own fault, his loneliness. Then he could feign to control it and be proud of it. He would not burden the blame on anyone else. He could not charge them guilty for the unrest in the pallor of his face. They might be just the same, and he the subject of a shared fury. He wondered what they thought of him? ”Would they cry if I were gone… And for how long?” He knew these thoughts well, like old neighbors, and grew more enraged by their familiarity. In that passionless wrath he told himself that just these thoughts alone made him useful to somebody, maybe the even world. A sense that this was just a by-product crept over him as he slept and awoke renewed.