I am standing over the edges of my bed. It sags into the bedframe slightly and I shift my balance between legs over the slight crevice. The corner creates an uneasily steady vantage point over the claustrophobic confines of my room. The two remaining lights shine awkwardly on the walls. The shelves continue their Atlas impersonations.
I am looking toward music I once listened to when I was younger, staring at the empty cases that litter a shelf. They tower unevenly, a testament to my eccentric tastes and my incompatibility with the world. I am always aware of this. The light shines off of the jewel cases, cracked plastic interspersed with colours in a world of art.
I turn again to my literature, a juxtaposition of my childhood and what the world pressures me into becoming. The comic books outweigh the novels but for image’s sake I, and others like me, call them graphic novels. I realize I have not finished a substantial novel in years. The comics stand with straightened spines and uniformity while the prose is collected in dishevelled organization.
I reach for magazines that teach me to play my instrument better; I feel a pang of guilt. They sit on the shelf, rarely read and barely touched. I could have been a better instrumentalist, I know, but I have squandered it away on two-second happinesses and distant friends. And I ignore them once more, pulling back my hand when I realize what I am doing.
I knock over a stack of photographs. They are film photographs, aged and collecting dust. I catch a glimpse of years in a span of seconds as the fall slowly, pirouetting downward in a wondrous spiral. They slide beneath my bed.
I step down from my vantage point and crouch down to pick up some photographs of yesterday. A hum comes from outside of my room and I lie to myself that it’s some old nostalgic tune. I am holding photographs in my hands of young men and women who I called my friends once. Perhaps some of them still are.
I am sitting in a recliner some number of years ago. The candles on a cake flicker vividly as the smiles are illuminated by a camera flash. The light shines off of my glasses. There is a bustle in the scene here. I am surrounded by my closest friends, the boys and the girls alike, and we share our smiles and our happiness. Five years ago, these are my friends.
I reflect on this scene and collect the photos. Today, they are little more than strangers. I am isolated; they have gone their own ways. They have become champions for their own causes; I have become a young man of yesteryear. They find happiness and eventual love; I linger in the past and resent myself. I stack what I find on my television. It, too, is gathering dust.
I check under the bed for any photos I have misplaced; I find one. It is of two people but I no longer recognize their faces. The boy seems to stare off into space, happily unaware that this picture is being capture for as long as the film persists. I think I knew him once; he looks like he could be happy behind those silent eyes. The girl seems to place her thoughts elsewhere; I do not think I know her any longer. I place the photo, for some reason, with the rest and climb the bed to stack them where they belong. The highest shelf creaks as I place the photos behind my literature.
I fall lazily onto my bed and look up at the dimming lights. They do not flicker; they remain constant. The orange glow accentuates the red walls; they do not do much for the black shelves. I look up again at my music and see that I have tucked away some yearbooks behind them. They fit nicely between the two parallel shelves.
I debate whether or not I should bring one of them down to recollect on my memories of years past. I decide against it; anything that I should remember has already been immortalized in my memory.
I collect myself and sit on the edge of my bed, feet flat against the warmth of the hardwood floor. I can feel the split between the panels contrast harshly against the soft fleece of my bed. I stare out through the doorway and into the dark hallway. It is lit only by the eerie blue lights of the kitchen appliances. I hear the drone of some faraway fans; through the ceiling I hear the pattering of a child’s running.
I reflect on my day and remember how I have been dumbstruck by some two-bit fact and that my toils and time have been for naught, rendered so by the fleeting “yes” of some faraway woman.
I am looking toward music I once listened to when I was younger, staring at the empty cases that litter a shelf. They tower unevenly, a testament to my eccentric tastes and my incompatibility with the world. I am always aware of this. The light shines off of the jewel cases, cracked plastic interspersed with colours in a world of art.
I turn again to my literature, a juxtaposition of my childhood and what the world pressures me into becoming. The comic books outweigh the novels but for image’s sake I, and others like me, call them graphic novels. I realize I have not finished a substantial novel in years. The comics stand with straightened spines and uniformity while the prose is collected in dishevelled organization.
I reach for magazines that teach me to play my instrument better; I feel a pang of guilt. They sit on the shelf, rarely read and barely touched. I could have been a better instrumentalist, I know, but I have squandered it away on two-second happinesses and distant friends. And I ignore them once more, pulling back my hand when I realize what I am doing.
I knock over a stack of photographs. They are film photographs, aged and collecting dust. I catch a glimpse of years in a span of seconds as the fall slowly, pirouetting downward in a wondrous spiral. They slide beneath my bed.
I step down from my vantage point and crouch down to pick up some photographs of yesterday. A hum comes from outside of my room and I lie to myself that it’s some old nostalgic tune. I am holding photographs in my hands of young men and women who I called my friends once. Perhaps some of them still are.
I am sitting in a recliner some number of years ago. The candles on a cake flicker vividly as the smiles are illuminated by a camera flash. The light shines off of my glasses. There is a bustle in the scene here. I am surrounded by my closest friends, the boys and the girls alike, and we share our smiles and our happiness. Five years ago, these are my friends.
I reflect on this scene and collect the photos. Today, they are little more than strangers. I am isolated; they have gone their own ways. They have become champions for their own causes; I have become a young man of yesteryear. They find happiness and eventual love; I linger in the past and resent myself. I stack what I find on my television. It, too, is gathering dust.
I check under the bed for any photos I have misplaced; I find one. It is of two people but I no longer recognize their faces. The boy seems to stare off into space, happily unaware that this picture is being capture for as long as the film persists. I think I knew him once; he looks like he could be happy behind those silent eyes. The girl seems to place her thoughts elsewhere; I do not think I know her any longer. I place the photo, for some reason, with the rest and climb the bed to stack them where they belong. The highest shelf creaks as I place the photos behind my literature.
I fall lazily onto my bed and look up at the dimming lights. They do not flicker; they remain constant. The orange glow accentuates the red walls; they do not do much for the black shelves. I look up again at my music and see that I have tucked away some yearbooks behind them. They fit nicely between the two parallel shelves.
I debate whether or not I should bring one of them down to recollect on my memories of years past. I decide against it; anything that I should remember has already been immortalized in my memory.
I collect myself and sit on the edge of my bed, feet flat against the warmth of the hardwood floor. I can feel the split between the panels contrast harshly against the soft fleece of my bed. I stare out through the doorway and into the dark hallway. It is lit only by the eerie blue lights of the kitchen appliances. I hear the drone of some faraway fans; through the ceiling I hear the pattering of a child’s running.
I reflect on my day and remember how I have been dumbstruck by some two-bit fact and that my toils and time have been for naught, rendered so by the fleeting “yes” of some faraway woman.
