He was so sick of this life yet once again his eyes opened. Automatically he felt for his phone and went through the social media he missed from last night-
Pictures of people he barely knew or liked at concerts with captions of “(insert relevant artist name)totally SMASHED it tonight;” pictures of cocktails of voucher paid ‘experiences’ with the quote “SO winning at life right now” or “BEST night ever!” Pictures of people at gyms or on holiday with motivational quotes or sunsets in the background. The dregs of human pseudo positivity.
He scrolled to the news. War in far away countries that he wanted, really wanted to care about but truly didn’t.
He got up and stumbled to the bathroom. The pain in his side was getting worse. He wondered how much longer he could keep doing it all.
After the anger came the togetherness. It lasted longer than the anger. It was like the stories of New York summer blackouts we’d seen in adverts. In the hardest of times you see the best of humanity. A retreat into the simplicity of life always awakens something human inside.
At first the stresses of life made people boil over under the hot sun. Similarly, the prudishness of people kept us private and alone. But people soon got organised:
“That’s the toilets over there-“
“Drinking water can be stockpiled here…”
Music was played from each car and you walked around as if it as a street carnival, the radio stations blending effortlessly. People sat in front seats of cars they didn’t own with people they didn’t know. In lay bys by the road, some lit fires in the evening. No one can remember what we talked about now but at the time it meant something.
When the cars finally started to move, there was a silent feeling of reluctance to return. I remember thinking that if we’d been there another day we might have started something. I thought I saw someone I spoke to years later at the mall, but we both pretended not to see each other.
It’s like looking through a condensed window. It’s the blurring of the eye before a migraine. It’s a myopia. Fogginess of a groggy brain that is as a lonely and empty as a silent forest. Creativity, like oxygen, you only notice in absence. And oh how it gnaws and aches.
— The Misfits by Arthur Miller
— Subha by Rabindranath Tagore
Wound around hopelessness, the abyss arrived.
— S.E.Hinton The Outsiders
pussycats-lair said: Not sure if you wrote "The Average Gatsby" but it was an awesome piece of work.
It wasn’t my work it’s the lyrics of a song!
— From Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Achichie