For The Widows in Paradise
2 Comments Published by Devin on Thursday, February 23, 2006 at 10:58 PM.
Music: R.E.M - The Great Beyond - Man on the Moon
Mood: Static
She believes in love and bliss; he values his craft above all else. He pretends that she's interesting so she'll fuck him on Friday. Certainly she's aware that it'll open Pandora's box of avenues to the social elite. But it's blurry and cold, fractured and futile. So she persists to no end, all the while pretending that she's bought perdition like a pack of smokes. When it ends, and it will, he goes back to his friends and plays the whore card, because his pride is precious. For her, that reputation she purchased for the price of a bj becomes as priceless as diamonds. Now she's the Elle Girl of the junior class, belle of the ball, the f*c*u*k-ing chic one.
A month later, they'll pretend that it never happened, that he's no longer the starting shooting guard and her a forgotten flavor du jour. In need of an ego lift, they'll fuck. Except this time, they make love. Or so she tells him. And as it began, it's expected to end, but it doesn't. There's no obligatory see you at school lines or even a hint of remorse in her voice when she doesn't ask him to get dressed and leave. Why? What changed in those 22 minutes? It was precisely the same as before, except this time they had nothing to lose, and only each other to gain. Rejected, defeated, depressed, and downright in love. Her headlights hang low in his driveway, self-inflicted remorse, or maybe something worse, an epiphany dawns.
Fuck rules, norms, conventions. Everything that once did, no longer matters. Rent an apartment, drop out, give birth, get jobs, raise a child, promotions, buy a home, more kids, more promotions, bigger home, teenagers become addicts, mid-life crises, affairs, promotions, trial separation, college, reunited, retirement, weddings, grandchildren, 65 years or more. It's gone in a flash of swirls and smiles. Nothing but the expected for these two self-proclaimed 'renegades'. And there you were, worried that they wouldn't find love in a bed after a few too many shots of tequila and jager. He takes her by the hand, just before her final breath, and whispers just how much that love means to him now, long after the crossover vanished, and her reputation turned to a tarnished war-story. She opens her eyes and closes them for the last time. A single tear and everything fades to black.
When it's over, he will go to the garage and dig through the boxes for his iPod. After all these years, the fucker still works. He plugs in his headphones, and clicks to Fast Car. And it all comes back to him in a visual collage of redemption. The waves, the cars, stories, games, sex, love, lies, laughs, tears, and he can't help himself. Laughing and crying. The pain drives his heart wild. And he wishes, while the guitars fade into the chorus, that he can send the pain away. The blood boils behind the eyes that belie years of wisdom and regret. His grandchildren will find him in the morning, lying on the concrete, his arms spread eagle, his heart silent, with the iPod playing Sufjan Stevens. A scribbled note to his right reads "I've mistaken beautiful stars for airplanes".
Mood: Static
She believes in love and bliss; he values his craft above all else. He pretends that she's interesting so she'll fuck him on Friday. Certainly she's aware that it'll open Pandora's box of avenues to the social elite. But it's blurry and cold, fractured and futile. So she persists to no end, all the while pretending that she's bought perdition like a pack of smokes. When it ends, and it will, he goes back to his friends and plays the whore card, because his pride is precious. For her, that reputation she purchased for the price of a bj becomes as priceless as diamonds. Now she's the Elle Girl of the junior class, belle of the ball, the f*c*u*k-ing chic one.
A month later, they'll pretend that it never happened, that he's no longer the starting shooting guard and her a forgotten flavor du jour. In need of an ego lift, they'll fuck. Except this time, they make love. Or so she tells him. And as it began, it's expected to end, but it doesn't. There's no obligatory see you at school lines or even a hint of remorse in her voice when she doesn't ask him to get dressed and leave. Why? What changed in those 22 minutes? It was precisely the same as before, except this time they had nothing to lose, and only each other to gain. Rejected, defeated, depressed, and downright in love. Her headlights hang low in his driveway, self-inflicted remorse, or maybe something worse, an epiphany dawns.
Fuck rules, norms, conventions. Everything that once did, no longer matters. Rent an apartment, drop out, give birth, get jobs, raise a child, promotions, buy a home, more kids, more promotions, bigger home, teenagers become addicts, mid-life crises, affairs, promotions, trial separation, college, reunited, retirement, weddings, grandchildren, 65 years or more. It's gone in a flash of swirls and smiles. Nothing but the expected for these two self-proclaimed 'renegades'. And there you were, worried that they wouldn't find love in a bed after a few too many shots of tequila and jager. He takes her by the hand, just before her final breath, and whispers just how much that love means to him now, long after the crossover vanished, and her reputation turned to a tarnished war-story. She opens her eyes and closes them for the last time. A single tear and everything fades to black.
When it's over, he will go to the garage and dig through the boxes for his iPod. After all these years, the fucker still works. He plugs in his headphones, and clicks to Fast Car. And it all comes back to him in a visual collage of redemption. The waves, the cars, stories, games, sex, love, lies, laughs, tears, and he can't help himself. Laughing and crying. The pain drives his heart wild. And he wishes, while the guitars fade into the chorus, that he can send the pain away. The blood boils behind the eyes that belie years of wisdom and regret. His grandchildren will find him in the morning, lying on the concrete, his arms spread eagle, his heart silent, with the iPod playing Sufjan Stevens. A scribbled note to his right reads "I've mistaken beautiful stars for airplanes".
that's some quality writing, but dude, where do you come up with stuff like this?
to be honest, i don't know. i often catch myself in these bizzare moods, and these arbitrary writings are the result. i know they're always really intense, but i like to roll with it.
ps - to answer your question, no weekend plans, so if you wanna come over you're more than welcome.