ThatMaskedMan

Not applicable
2002-04-29 22:05:12 (UTC)

April 29, 2002

I decided to write a narrative to start this one off...

Watching the clock make its slow rounds to the hour was
torture. Math class with its integral calculus and complex
derivations lost its grip on his attention, as all his wits
focused on willing that second hand to just MOVE!

*Ring!* Ahh, finally, the bell! he thought. His calves
already tensed, Greg leapt out of his chair, maintaining a
quick pace as he walked down the bland, whitewashed walls
towards his car.

Once outside, he clawed a cigarette out of its pack, and had
it lit and burning in seconds. He took a drag, then
another, and released the cloud as a weight off his soul.
He leaned against the fire-red brick exterior, closing his
eyes and holding the cigarette at waist level. It was as
with every other day after he and his ex-girlfriend had
split. Some days better than others, all ending with the
familiar cigarette. He looked down, mindlessly fondling the
Zippo lighter that lay in his left hand. A rose entwined
with a skull lay painted on its case. Funny how she always
hated my smoking habit and yet bought me this lighter, he
mused.

A half-smile creased the pained concrete of his face, but
was quickly submerged. One would think that he had an
involuntary twitch that teased the corner of his mouth.
Greg pocketed the lighter, ran his hand through his coarse,
brown hair and walked forward, his pale blue eyes seemingly
penetrating the mass of cars that lay like dormant beetles
in the lot. He walked more leisurely now, taking another
drag every few steps, until he reached his car.

As he tossed his backpack in the back seat, his mind ran
quickly over the afternoon that lay ahead. "Let's see," he
said aloud, as was his habit. "I've got work at 5:00, that
stupid health project to do, and my parents to confront at
dinner. La-de-fucking-da."

He froze, his eyes trained on the sticker in the rear
window. He stared intently, as if to let his sight falter
meant the disappearance of the Dave Matthews Band decal,
while at the same time wanting to induce its spontaneous
combustion. It was another reminder of her: at once his
feet faltered a moment, his face colored imperceptibly with
anger.

After a second's hesitation, he entered the car, and smoked
for a few seconds more before starting it. Smoking was one
of the last remaining things he had, in his opinion, and
each cloud of the vile fumes (he knew all too well he was
killing himself slowly) twisted, laden with emotion. "It's
not the toxins that kill you, it's the measures of life that
seep out, carried by those clouds that shortens your
existence," he mused.

Aside from smoking, there was the time between school and
work that he lived for. His parents and he had agreed that
he could smoke in his room (with a window open), and to
leave him alone for the most part, unless the house fell
down around them or some other disaster should strike. Most
times it felt as if it would. They weren't a dysfunctional
family; he just couldn't stand them, plain and simple. As
he maneuvered his way through the traffic, his mind
wandered to their subtle, parental ways. How they
criticized his clothes, friends, grades, habits, and
solitary tendencies.

"Why don't you call up Jon or Kyle or even Sarah?"

"I've got a lot of work to do, Mom," he would lie. "Maybe
tomorrow or some other time."

"Dear, it's not good for you to spend so much time alone. I
worry about you, you know."

"Yeah, Mom. Thanks. Why didn't you mention Cassandra or
Matt? They're my friends, too, you know."

"Well, I suppose they are, but Kyle's a nice guy, too."

"Christ, Mom, I'm not marrying the kid!"

"Greg, language. And besides I'm not saying you should.
He's a good influence on you, that's all. Take advantage of
that."

It was always the same trigger: her worry for him. For
God's sake, he wasn't a little kid! And he wasn't
anti-social, he just valued his time to think. It seemed to
be the only value in life, and still fragile at that.
Turning at an intersection, he ran the cycle over in his
head again: You're born, you go to school, you grow up,
perhaps make some friends on the way; you go to college, you
graduate, you get a job, you make money, you get married (if
you're lucky), you have kids (if you're not lucky), you grow
old, you die. How worthless.

He wasn't suicidal; indeed, he was far from it, but life
just held no value for him. It was the Great Routine of
routines, the natural machine that performed wondrously
without excessive engine oil. Wish my car would run the
same, he thought.

With a deft motion of his hands, he pulled the car into his
driveway, shifting out of gear and turning off the engine.
"What is the point? Why does everything have to be a fight
about who I am?" Unknowingly, he had introduced the topic
to absorb his mind for the next three hours. As he set his
feet on the pavement, as if testing their integrity, he
passed a cue to the voices in his head for argument,
lighting up another cigarette between stone-set lips, his
eyes becoming unfocused and turned inwards upon his self.

This is not really an expression of personal feeling, nor
does it have much to do with me. It's funny, however, how
most teenagers I know have a disdain for life, although they
express it in opposite ways. The one you read above is
similar to ones that I've read on a friend's diary here.
The other disdain is that of reckless pleasure. I mean the
people that go out partying every weekend, and otherwise
talk about nothing but sports, girls, and drinking (or from
the female perspective: fashion, guys, and gossip). Each
has their own disregard for life, their method of saying
"Fuck it all!" and moving without recognizing consequence.

Maybe life is worthless in the end, and maybe it all just
doesn't make a difference, but as they say (or something to
this effect): To the world you may be no one, but to someone
you may be the world.

Perhaps life's value lies more in others, in what can't be
bought by money or isn't otherwise tangible. Perhaps in our
digging for the meaning of life we've buried our heads in
the sand. Perhaps what I said a paragraph ago is true:
there really is no meaning. As far as I'm concerned it's
better than the alternative. If I don't put my energy
towards living life, then where do I direct it? Maybe I
could strap wires onto myself, become a human battery, and
provide the electric supply to some small town in Iowa for a
year. That might pass for community service. "Hey, Ma!
Can ya make some scrambled eggs? The generator's hungry
again!"

Even if life is worthless in the cosmic sense, as long as
I'm still alive, I demonstrate its worth to me. So if it's
worth it, then might as well add the style and tact.

-Ricardo-




Ad: