…and I was standing in the pouring rain, completely hopeless, my thoughts as conflicting and torrential as the storm brewing in the gray clouds above me. I resumed walking. I had no particular destination set in my mind, but I needed to move, because maybe it would make me think differently. But sometimes, no matter how far one walks, or where, one always seems to stay in the same place. Sometimes, running is useless. This was one of those times, and I knew it; I also knew that if I stayed in one spot, my mind would wander again, leading me inevitably to thoughts of my present situation, and how to rectify it. That’s how it always started, and destructive was how thoughts like those always came to their end.
So, I kept walking, maybe in some way searching for distractions, things to keep my mind off track. I observed people interact and go about their business. They travel in packs, and pairs of two (never alone), rarely taking time to notice that world existing outside of their own. I make it a point to make eye contact with each and every one of them. They just look away uncomfortably, after our gazes briefly meet. I know how I must look to them: short, plain, and just a bit strange for being alone; them adding their inferences to my presence and appearance, and nodding as if they know everything. They know nothing. I am sad to them. Melancholy, lonely; unusual, and uninteresting. Faceless -- anonymous. I revel in this feeling of anonymity. It allows me to observe, to see. To step into the lives of others, even while my own is crumbling to dust around me. It allows me, for a small moment, to forget.
I begin to whistle tunelessly, the sudden sound cutting sharply through the droning pit-and-patter of rain on cement. Wandering aimlessly through a deserted park, I stop to study the statue of a man obstructing the space before me. While I absently traced the worn outline of the granite structure, my mind switched to other things: the reasons why I was outside in the rain, in the first place. My drifting gaze finally alighted on the statue’s right shoulder, then my vision blurred as I once again became consumed by memories, and small realizations of my present situation.
Still whistling, the melody morphed slowly into something vaguely recognizable, almost without me noticing. Ah. There it was. “Who Loves the Sun.” It struck me how incredibly inappropriate the song was; I was stranded downtown, completely miserable and soaking wet, in the middle of a rain storm. Ridiculous. I shook my head, smiled cynically to myself, and resumed my wandering.
Ah, these people, their whispered venom swirling and eddying around my person like sour, contaminated water. Their critical looks and poisonous gossip slide off me easily like oil, but still leave a slight residue behind to soak into my skin forever. These people, they are leeches. They are never satisfied unless you give them your soul, then they discard you like a piece of trash, just as they discard their fake, smiling masks. These people -- they are relentless.
I am discontent.
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