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Ghost
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Ghost |
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Eromyna Member
since 2002-11-29
Posts 306Pheonix, AZ, USA 
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I imagine myself a ghost. This room is a dream of the future and I am a lucky soul to be given this vision of what the world will be. But I don't like it. I sink back from the sight. Ordered rows set in straight lines meet my gaze. No, they see through it. They stare ahead mindlessly, impassive to existence. They wear no uniforms, are policed by no commander, forcing them to sit so. They simply have no mind for anything else. It is not contentment so much as a lack of ambition or excitement. Days blend together for me -- and them too maybe -- until it is all one monotonous sense of being with no purpose. The bell rings. I shake off the stupor and stand to gather my things. The room is empty before I sling my bag to my shoulder and make my way slowly to the door, my feet dragging with exhaustion. In a few hours, I'll be done with my final class and brimming with energy, but for now my jaw aches with yawning. The hall is crowded, as it is near the middle of passing period and the age of "socialization." Dumb love is present in blinding brazenness. Tempers flare, arms flail, things scatter below my feet and I pick my way around the wreckage, careful not to step on any. They are every child's dreams to me; ordinary to those who see them every day. They go unnoticed and are crushed beneath the careless weight of maturing. As much as I despise these fools for wearing blindfolds over good eyes, I still pity them in this same folly and only wish I could burn those wretched crutches. But maybe it's too late. They are dependent on their manufactured reality. Pain to them is a blemish on their painted faces; fear is a movie prop; hate is a rivalry. And I am an idiot. The soldiers don't know how to march. For all their patterned mimicry, they can't seem to follow a straight line. They turn around where I am walking and scold me for my clumsy consistency. I used to provide an understanding step to one side or another. For a while I pitied whom I thought to be lost. Then I didn't care. They could cry under my feet for all their stupid, stupid superficiality. And now I resent it. Why should I scuff my shoes on maggots like you? You who pierce my ears all day with your whining of meager riches. My head throbs and the nurse can say nothing. She may not know the cause, but it is clear in every stabbing screech from your empty heads. I would ask you, demand that you listen, but I am discouraged by the very idea. You are deaf. I can not explain to a fish why the hook cuts its flesh. It just does and you are dumb enough to bite again every time. The plentiful oxygen is too much for your smothered gills and you beg again for water. But here you poison my head with your laments for things above you. You are the gifted! You cannot ask for riches more than those piled upon your golden scales. You'll wring no sympathy from me for your yesterday's goods when I pry mine from your trash. Every day my eyes hide from the secondhand shame. So step on me, like the worthless aggravation I am. Perhaps, in some higher order, I would be my imagined ghostliness and could be rid of your reality. Your sugar rots in my mouth and I loath to swallow, but dare not waste it. If only the poison of your souls would seep into my body and rend me from my flesh so I can scorn you and forget. But until then I sigh in the weight of your afflictions, I cry for the blindness you force on yourselves, and I cringe at such heartless dismissal as you bear for me. Tripping on a pair of leather shoes with new laces, I draw blood from a tight hand, grasping the metal chair. Sucking in my breath, I turn my blush to the floor and sit down without looking up. But the shoes still scold me, a scuff on one toe. I have left a mark, though not the one I desired. Here I've become real and the ghost fades inside me. I am here and no dreaming will make it unreal; this future is now and the bland formality drains me of life. I yawn again and hold my head in my hands. "Look up from your desk. I'm not teaching the walls!" The cold eyes tell me nothing, so I stare through them instead. With no focus in mind, I try to remember what made the last hour forgotten. "I don't need to scream for you to deem me aggravation." |
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| © Copyright 2003 Shay D. - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Barbara Trautman Member
since 2002-10-23
Posts 90 |
Poetry in prose. I loved it. Barb |
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Wesley the Blue Member
since 1999-09-02
Posts 426Forest Lake, MN, USA |
This was an interesting read. I felt it was a little vague. The imagry was there and I felt the right emotions, but I think it could use a little more fleshing out in substance, tell us what make you fell and say these things. Just a thought. I still did enjoy reading this piece. Keep up the good work. Keith Mullin "Get busy living, or get busy dying. Thats damn right!" ~Shawshank Redemption |
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