THE ART OF ENNUI

-After Chuck Palahniuk-

What’s the word for the opposite of glamour?

Dear You~

I sit outside your window, sprawled upon the shattered glass, my heart ripped open like a storybook no one cares enough to read. The blue lights of your TV flicker-flash against the pane like a demonic presence. I know you’re trapped inside your artificial darkness, and I know I should go Home, but I’m not sure just where that is. We’re all like this boy I used to know, the one who rented that hotel just so he could tie a noose without anyone watching, just so he could die in peace knowing that in the morning, nobody who cared would be watching him swing. We’re all like he was, praying, but not believing, that maybe someday there will be somewhere or someone to call Home.
We’re possessed with that collapsed chest feeling, the one that keeps us roaming from the liars who claim to care, the one that keeps us walking hand in hand over frozen railroad tracks, that drives us to use gravestones as our pillows, that instinct to sleep on the pea-gravel of plastic playgrounds in the rain rather than our beds above those hellish monsters who, in the name of love, snap their jaws shut upon us. We shower in the rainwater that explodes from the gutters, and dance on concrete basketball courts. Shivering in our fingerless gloves, we seek refuge in Laundromats, laying on those collapsible tables and pretending that we want to be here, trying to convince ourselves we’re glad nobody knows where we are, trying to tell ourselves it’s a good thing that nobody’s worried about us because it means we’re independent, means we’re FREE. We spend our nights chasing lightning storms over cracked cobblestone, watching the world from abandoned rooftops, catching fire flies and then letting them go again.

Love,

~me~

PS—at this rate, we’ll never get to the future.