I've been working on this for a while. It's a combination of so many things, so many feelings, so many people. Though structurally it's been heavily influenced by one event, I wouldn't call myself the narrator. There are things the narrator says that are true with me, but there are plenty of things that aren't as well. I'm trying to write less about myself and finally move forward with fiction.
if you read this (you know who you are) please talk to me before you make any assumptions. please. :\
Shift
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I stared at the curve of his neck; at those little hairs that look white in the light, those that only make your skin feel softer against my fingers. I could feel them in another world. I was closer to them in another world. I was whispering in his ears, “I know, I know,” in another world. And he was who I had written him to be. In this world I sat across from him at a small, square table, during lunch out in the city.
We had met incidentally, neither of us knowing the other would also be visiting the city this time of year, or ever at all. Seeing him walking down the street that day knocked me off of whatever logical state of mind I had been in. I had just been writing and lately all of my stories had boasted a similar type of character. Only recently had I noticed that they were all somewhat like him. Seeing his physical form almost made me believe I had written him into my real life and that everything that would happen next would be a manifestation of my creativity. Of course I thought of doing nothing but shouting out his name.
We agreed to meet for lunch the next day, at this French restaurant he said his sister recommended. Sitting there across the table from him, I began to imagine what he was thinking. He was turned, looking out a window behind him at a group of people all protesting something neither of us fully understood. The way his eyes looked as he gazed past the immediate foreground granted him this contemplative aura that he likely didn’t really deserve. Knowing he was an artist had me imagining boundless creativity flowing as his stare hinted at inspiration. “Wow, look at how intense that some of those people are,” he said, breaking the illusion. There had been a brief peak in the volume of the protest.
“I kind of wish I knew more about what they were yelling about; they seem way more enthusiastic than protesters back home, even.”
“No kidding,” was all he said to that. After taking a few seconds once more to look around, he admitted, “Man, I could never live in this city, because all I would do is people watch like this.”
People watch. Without any elaboration, I developed my own conception of whatever it was he meant. He would observe passersby, noting passion and feeling in those around him that, for some reason evaded himself. He wondered what it was like to feel, what it was like to be in the world instead of behind glass like he was now. He wondered.
“Ready to get going?” he asked. I wasn’t. We were supposed to get more out of that lunch. We were supposed to rediscover each other and run off, burning bridges left and right swearing to rebuild some sort of life together that neither of us ever had the courage to reach for.
“Yeah, sure.”
--
“Hello once again, stranger.”
I opened my eyes. I had been napping on the grass at a park near the apartment where I was staying. It’s dangerous to wake someone who could possibly love you as gently as he did. Hearing his voice as I awoke fooled me into thinking he would embrace me and run his hands down my back. He did in some other world. He touched the tip of his nose to mine in some other world. He told me I would discover art and feeling and meaning by meeting my gaze with his in another world. In this one he was standing with his sister over me, wearing sunglasses that hid his soul from my wanting eyes.
“It’s like world’s smaller just for us, don’t you think? I’m sorry I woke you, but I wanted you to meet my sister.”
She and I exchanged introductions and handshakes, small talk and flattery. All the while I wanted to grab his hand and run, in no direction in particular, but in one that would take us to another space, where gravity wasn’t around to keep my creativity down on all fours, where my will was my own.
{So run. I’m setting you free.}
the world began to blur like fingers running against an oil canvas his sister had no face soon the line separating her body from the air would be gone and she would be everything the grass fell beneath me i grabbed him while i could and pressed him to my chest he understood everything his fingers grew slightly longer softer his hair swirled his eyes grew brighter he changed in so many ways who was he becoming i held him closer and soon i looked into his eyes more familiar even than my own he whispered i know I know into my ear and the sun weaved a perfect orange shawl to wrap around this world there was nothing else to see or hear or feel only orange only sunset only i know i know i know i know i know
his sister grabbed my hand there is no place for you she shouted she pulled me out of the ground away from him away from his voice there is no place for you there is only this place and you don’t deserve another any more than the rest of us she was louder than anyone had ever been everyone around couldn’t help but face me as if to agree i saw them all forming a circle around us, chained to one another with their mouths sewn shut only their eyes spoke and they stared relentlessly unchanging
But no one ever really looked at me. Nobody cared. Nobody paused even for a second, because they all had somewhere to be, somewhere to go. His sister shook my hand, saying “It was nice meeting you, but we have reservations across town in an hour.” She turned away like I was relatively unimportant and he followed her. He didn’t say goodbye, he didn’t touch me as if to admit he, too, dreaded that we would not meet for however long it would be. I lay back down on the grass, stared upwards and pondered my plans for the rest of the day. I received a message from him on my phone later, saying only “Sorry that was so abrupt.”
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