apeirophobe (apeirophobe) wrote,
apeirophobe
apeirophobe

Life in a Centrifuge: Part IX

Collision
cycle six


All you want to do is move large swaying subway crowds to tears. You want to move people to anything, really: love, anger, confusion, delirium, bliss.

Love would be nice. It would be nice to make someone cry with happiness again.

But that's just a bit out of reach right now, considering that you lack the right person. You almost scream out loud on the walk home, and sure it's straight out of a movie, but that's not why. You almost scream out loud because for a fleeting moment, that's exactly how you feel.

So you call and wish Rachel a happy birthday, but she's too preoccupied with herself. You call Andy, with her tiny heart and all its incandescent frissions and tell her how lovely she looked and imply that in a perfect world - or a well-written film - you could love her. But it's never as easy to embrace the world and its denizens, the broken and fucked of the infinite, as they make it seem in the theater. There were moments, a glittering handful of them, that - had the screen of your existence faded to black - would have left an audience in a parallel dimension bereft of speech. But life continues after these moments, and you or the Fates have spoiled almost all of them, leaving very few intact.

You hang up with Andy, and play Elliot Smith on your stereo as loud as you can. You sing along to 'Bottle Up and Explode' from the fire escape at the top of your lungs. You dance around the living room alone. After you've done this for about fifteen minutes, you fall on your bed alone, exhausted and panting. You fall asleep alone, and you sleep well, because in the phone calls and the revealing and the music and the dancing you have moved your neighbors to anger over the cacophony, you have moved the late-night hustlers and wanderers of 3rd Street to confusion over the fractured vocal eruption that so resembled it's own title, and you have moved yourself to a sleepy delirium. Because of you, people felt something, if only temporarily.

Love, and the tears that define it, will come in time, perhaps.
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