Ramblings of a Mad Tennis Player (prose, of a sort)
What did you think of me when I walked in with my arms full of angry books and tattered shoes that I wish were for dancing? The smile I hide in my pocket is full of newly tightened braces and sadness, the one you see is just bitten lips and a fake happiness I invented to keep people like you at a distance. I'm here to hit bright green round objects with a netted oval hoop on a stick, maybe I can work out my frustrations on that but I'd rather work them out on you, you with your glares and condescending smiles you don't realize I see. Time to go home, whishing I was controlling the wheel but settling for the stereo, put in a favorite band, mom says they sound like Pink Floyd but I disagree and she seems surprised that I know who she's talking about. "How was your day?" everybody asks, and I reply "Fine," then realize that I'm lying and wish that I could take it back but lack the motivation, after all, they're lying to me too. I've always wanted to be honest but I realize now that honesty is a relative term, that if I asked the balding man on the wet basketball court how his day was he'd probably say "Fine" as well, or eye me warily because I'm a stranger and in this day and age trust is also a relative thing, because the fewer mutual friends you have with a person, the more you will tell them, but if you're a total stranger you needn't bother because they dont care about you. My delusions give me another world but I tend to forget what's real and what's beautiful, and I have to ask my friends their names again because I hate labels and so often forget the ones I should remember in the process of forgetting the ones that are pasted to my back whenever someone thinks I'm not looking. But I'm always looking and I feel so hunted, the only place I'm save is in my room with candles lit and music playing to dirve away the ghosts of who we used to be. I never want to leave here until I run out of things to read or expresso to keep me alert to this world's arrows that always seem to be aimed at me, but I know someone else will drag me out, I'll load my arms with more books and more shoes and try not to blink as the light hits my eyes... Written November 20th, 2001 © on Nov 20 2001 12:28 PM PST 18 • 0 • 9
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"What did you think of me when I walked in with my arms full of angry books and tattered shoes that I wish were for dancing? The smile I hide in my pocket is full of newly tightened braces and sadness, the one you see is just bitten lips and a fake happiness I invented to keep people like you at a distance. I'm here to hit bright green round objects with a netted oval hoop on a stick, maybe I can work out my frustrations on that but I'd rather work them out on you, you with your glares and condescending smiles you don't realize I see. Time to go home, whishing I was controlling the wheel but settling for the stereo, put in a favorite band, mom says they sound like Pink Floyd but I disagree and she seems surprised that I know who she's talking about. "How was your day?" everybody asks, and I reply "Fine," then realize that I'm lying and wish that I could take it back but lack the motivation, after all, they're lying to me too. I've always wanted to be honest but I realize now that honesty is a relative term, that if I asked the balding man on the wet basketball court how his day was he'd probably say "Fine" as well, or eye me warily because I'm a stranger and in this day and age trust is also a relative thing, because the fewer mutual friends you have with a person, the more you will tell them, but if you're a total stranger you needn't bother because they dont care about you. My delusions give me another world but I tend to forget what's real and what's beautiful, and I have to ask my friends their names again because I hate labels and so often forget the ones I should remember in the process of forgetting the ones that are pasted to my back whenever someone thinks I'm not looking. But I'm always looking and I feel so hunted, the only place I'm save is in my room with candles lit and music playing to dirve away the ghosts of who we used to be. I never want to leave here until I run out of things to read or expresso to keep me alert to this world's arrows that always seem to be aimed at me, but I know someone else will drag me out, I'll load my arms with more books and more shoes and try not to blink as the light hits my eyes......"