Tuesday, March 24, 2009

I wish the truth were happier.

I hear better stories on the street than I could ever come up with on my own. Dead Mothers and stolen bicycles. Torrid tragedies remembered by streetlamps.

I was walking to the store, Cigarette in mouth, breathing in smoke which simultaneously comforted me about my coming death and increased its proximity. In the centre of the street, a few people met and began talking loudly about a party, or something of the sort. One of the girls, clearly drunk, and rather obnoxious sounding said "I can't believe they stole that bike off my front lawn. That was my mom's bike. She's fucking dead and they stole it. That's all I have to remember her by. She's fucking dead and they stole her bike. What sort of people do that, just steal a bike off a front lawn. What the hell am I gonna do?"

I walked down the sidewalk, away from there middle of the street conference. While I was smoking and watching the billows rise up above me into the night, I could hear two of the voices behind me while I walked. "That was my mom's bike. I needed that. I can't believe they did that, I just can't fucking believe it." I couldn't make out what the friend was saying.

About halfway to the store, and about a block after the voices disappeared into a house on my street, I could still hear the timbre of the girl's voice. It was the voice of the girl at a party you just wish would shut up. The voice that sounds just as annoying when complaining about there not being enough dip for the chips as when complaining about something that needs to be complained about. It was so sad. That's a voice I would disregard normally. I would have just felt annoyed by tone and not have bothered to hear content. It's something to note; the most annoying people still have problems.

I finished my cigarette feeling great and horrible at the same time. I knew I shouldn't be smoking. It's bad for my lungs, the smell is atrocious, and the benefits aren't really that apparent. It makes some things bearable. It's not a habit yet I guess. I've only bought one pack in the last three months. That's a good sign, but that I still need them is a bother. But I still need drugs every night. To feel good I need lots of things. To feel right I need lots of things.

while worrying about my lungs and the shortening of my life I lit another cigarette and wondered if that bike would be returned, and how that girl's mother died, and who she was, and what the hell was going on, and if it was recent or something that the girl just talked about every time she got drunk. Was this all just something that came to my head because I like stories? Did I make all of this up and convince myself it was real. Shit.

I hear more interesting stories in the middle of the night, in the middle of the street than I could ever come up with, but I wish I could. I wish the stories I heard were made up, and I wish the stories didn't have to be true. I wish that girl's bike, that had once belonged to her mother, hadn't been stolen. I wish that the stories about me, about going crazy, about shattering my life into a million pieces and having to pick them up and patiently glue them back together with drugs and persistence weren't true.

I wish my life this far with a dead brother, a crazy father, a crazy self, and generally unfulfilled dreams and ambitions weren't true.

I can make up stories, but they're never as interesting as the sad ones that I hear at night, when I can't sleep and my feet just want to strike the pavement, and my lungs just want a mix of fresh air and carcinogenic smoke.

I wish the truth were happier than it is, for me and for everyone else.

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