I didn't really know what to tell you. Better yet, I didn't know how to say it. I thought that maybe it was just one of those things that I should just leave alone. They aren't typical feelings. I know some people get into a trance and think happy thoughts when they hear something like that... something elusive and maybe even dark, seeming to come from the inferiority complex that plagues me.
I always hope to avoid using big words. And I always hope to avoid making a mess of my words that does nothing more than clutter up the meaning. But the loneliness can get you if you don't watch it. It's those little things that no one ever sees. When I step out back to smoke a cigarette - no one is there to share the experience. No one is there to watch my eyes as they scan the sky and procure a cloud formation or two. Or three. No one is there when I move my hand and suck on the cigarette lightly. No one is there to see the fake ring I purchased scratch my lip. Only I know that the ring even touched skin that is typically alien to it. No one is there as I stare at the huge fans on the air conditioner as they rotate ruthlessly through space, knowing no sense of time or pleasure. No one is there as I think about counting the bricks - then realize how pathetic life has become when the most entertaining thought I have is to wonder about the building's construction. No one is there as I think about the fact that no one is there.
A walk was certainly in order this evening. I figured maybe I needed the air. Dusk had come and perhaps the natural surroundings would help me placate my body for what it is craving. I couldn't resist lighting the cigarette - and oh how ironic it was that I was actually considering doing something healthy for myself, yet I mindlessly light the cancer stick. Fuck I didn't even know how ironic it was until it was actually lit and swinging back and forth as my hand moved to the rhythm of my feet. My glasses were allowing the intense glares of the streetlights to blaze trails into my retinas. It was the glare itself I was more interested in... the tentacles of blue and yellow light (depending on the bulb of course) like I was watching a poorly lit movie. Irony strikes again: why do they use filters to shape those lights like twinkling stars? Do they do it to represent a glimmer of hope that the character who is about to be deliciously shredded might escape?
The bugs were eating me alive - which I thought odd. There was plenty of meat travelling through the twisty surburban neighborhood street... but it certainly isn't very juicy. The mosquitoes avoid me. That would stand to reason, I suppose. They find no nourishment beneath my pale skin.
I noticed my shadow stretching and contracting on the grass. I studied it for a long time and noticed that it represented various stages of my body if I made a habit out of this walk at dusk. I puffed on the cigarette and thought about how I had resigned myself to quit. Irony, part three: walking for the exercise to lose the weight that I think might make me feel better; performing the black habit that needs to stop and knowing of the weight gain to come. Catch-22, you think? Most certainly. Black habit? Definitely.
My buttocks were aching after twenty minutes. I knew I was out of shape, but I was relatively comforted by your words the other day... how you thought my body represented itself well even in profile. You mentioned my breasts and their perfect conformity to my girlish swayback that you say you love so much. That in itself lends me to wonder what you find attractive in women. How does it represent acceptance? That is one part of you I may never understand.
My blackened lungs heaved to intake the nicotine. After exhaling, I drew in a breath without the cigarette and tasted the humid Virginian air. It was suffocating. I was being asphyxiated by that which is supposed to make me healthy. It was poison. I was surrounded by poison.
I walked faster.
I found myself looking through a few windows. Not very prudent of me, is it? A good Catholic girl walking in the birth of night - shouldn't I have something better to look at? Like the trees? Or the moon? Why can't I tear myself away from the curiousity of what transpires in the homes of people? Why can I not rid myself of that thirst?
Maybe I understood the conscience of a pyschopath at that point. They're all driven by something... jealousy, rage, inexperience, perhaps even knowledge. Shit... nevermind - I'll never get that. But I want to understand. Wouldn't you? In your quest for information wouldn't you want to know about the lairs of the Normal People?
The bugs kept landing on me while I walked but they just never found solace on me. They'd leave and return. I know they smelled my blackened lungs. I know they smelled my habit. I know they smelled what I've hidden for so long.
I just can't get rid of my black nature; life's embodiment of demise which is nothing more than a mind that has retreated into darkness. Even though my body retreats from exercise, it craves the black habit. Even though my mind retreats from exposure, the black nature surges forward when it is cloaked by shadows.
Irony: part four. I only smoked one cigarette, I swear. Black nature was quenched a little more.
Do you understand?