surrounded by fiction

I wanted to write the story of a man who's never done before his dignity. A man who let the years wash over him & sat amidst collected memories; the truth always tugging at his coat tails. With every love lost, he'd hold hope close to his heart and imagine the times he was 'the one who got away'. Meanwhile, another day's scratched off the calendar and the reality of the words he writes fades just a little more.

It seemed a little like a lie. Obvious reasons abounded. Why, that man's no "man" at at all! That scared little boy with the thin skin of some strange costume pulled tight across his frame. Time lacks both compassion and qualification as to judge of character. It's too busy, perpetually passing by. Sure, it helps to make a fine disguise but never touches the design inside.

Age seems to have made some terrible error on the way to one even graver still. The kid's not comfortable resting alone; hiding from daylight, desperately wanting in the evening. Always reaching out of range. Still falling all over himself. Lacking confidence and the capability for pretense. No friend to aesthetics. None too pleasing to the eye.

His world's grown loud, bright, & dangerous. It's poetry and promises gone obsolete. Yet, he sees fit to arm himself with only shy smile and sharp wit. Seems he doesn't feel so strange when standing in the space between laughs. Silly little boy, still searching for connection; for that ever-receding constant...

And so it goes.

I wanted to write the story of a man so that someone would understand him. Instead, I scribbled down the same fading child's tale I always do and smiled soft in the room's sitting silence; waiting for the sun to go down.