He leaned against the battered brick wall, his white converse sneakers
dulled. Nobody ever noticed the white converse sneakers, well, because they
weren't quite so white anymore. Kind of an egg-white, yellowish hue; this
was what had arisen after months of running through the dirt lot and
playing childish games. There was that one time when his friend chased him
with a water balloon. He tripped over something and fell down. On the dusty
ground his jean jacket got covered in orange smut while he gasped for
breath from stomach churning laughter. It was fun, oh so fun. Ah, the good
old days, which had led up to this imperfect moment. Or was it perfect? The
memories had run together with what was going on right now, and he cared
not to differentiate the two. What was the point when you cared to remain
apathetic? He was oblivious and it was the only way. It was like a formula.
If he thought too hard, his feelings would get in the way. Indifference was
the only way to appear and act normal.
He used to be different; he used to be a good kid. The way they always said it, like you're their little pet dog, or their goddamned project. Of course he didn't want to be like all the others, he's a smart one. He's mature. He doesn't go with the others to cause trouble because he likes to sit and read, so pensive looking beneath his yellow lamp-light. He cares. Funny how through all these years, no one had ever figured it out. That, whatever it was way back when, was not what he wanted.
Who fucking understands anyway? He didn't like it, not one bit. That's when he stopped. He stopped trying so hard. He smoked his goddamned cigarette. He skipped his meals and let his once built frame become bent and wiry. What was the need to stay healthy anyway? Track meets are run by a bunch of mindless idiots. If only they knew how trivial their little lives are. But why speak up when you are ambiguous and you have nothing to say? Life offers nothing, therefore there is nothing to fight for. He had hope once, but a few bit of events kind of changed that. These events were not worth explaining, mostly because he didn't want to think about it. He didn't want pity. He is not a victim. Now he understood, unfortunately.
He used to notice them, all of those who had turned away from what they used to know. He always thought he knew but apparently he was wrong. He was fucking wrong. His mind had mapped it out before. He made sure he didn't turn out like all those who shrink into that meaningless pattern of thinking. He hadn't wanted to turn out like all the others, because that just wasn't him.
He had become a cliché.
He used to be different; he used to be a good kid. The way they always said it, like you're their little pet dog, or their goddamned project. Of course he didn't want to be like all the others, he's a smart one. He's mature. He doesn't go with the others to cause trouble because he likes to sit and read, so pensive looking beneath his yellow lamp-light. He cares. Funny how through all these years, no one had ever figured it out. That, whatever it was way back when, was not what he wanted.
Who fucking understands anyway? He didn't like it, not one bit. That's when he stopped. He stopped trying so hard. He smoked his goddamned cigarette. He skipped his meals and let his once built frame become bent and wiry. What was the need to stay healthy anyway? Track meets are run by a bunch of mindless idiots. If only they knew how trivial their little lives are. But why speak up when you are ambiguous and you have nothing to say? Life offers nothing, therefore there is nothing to fight for. He had hope once, but a few bit of events kind of changed that. These events were not worth explaining, mostly because he didn't want to think about it. He didn't want pity. He is not a victim. Now he understood, unfortunately.
He used to notice them, all of those who had turned away from what they used to know. He always thought he knew but apparently he was wrong. He was fucking wrong. His mind had mapped it out before. He made sure he didn't turn out like all those who shrink into that meaningless pattern of thinking. He hadn't wanted to turn out like all the others, because that just wasn't him.
He had become a cliché.