I Once Thought I Was An Author

He turned to her and said softly, “so, plug in if you’re drained. In this moment, we’ve never been so connected.” Her blank stare peaked out briefly from behind an overly radiant glow. He found her vacant. He inwardly whispered, “and, we’ve never felt so alone.”

As of late, the flight patterns of airplanes have changed and the sound of arriving jets could be heard, keeping him from sleep. With each returning flight, he is reminded of the brief time he had spent abroad, away, and immersed in new culture. The longing grows, as a vine, beautiful, yet constricting. It has wrapped itself around his thoughts. The color-filled day dreams of distant lands now stole most of his concentration. People began to make note of the displaced look in his eyes. Once compared to a calm ocean, they became stormy, tumultuous, and tinted with a slight grey hue. He longs to wander.

Expectations on the Topic of Growth

He woke, suddenly. Greeted by pre-dawn shadows, a glowing green hue from a cable box clock, and an odd tingle that still lingered from electro-shock dreams. There was no sleep left in his eyes. There rarely was, these days. A sense of restlessness set the background tone for an otherwise mundane life-song. It’s not that this existence bored him. He’s come to realize, as of late, that he was the one playing the tune. He could change the tempo, if he wanted. But, it would be in opposition to the conductor’s direction. Fuck the full band. Fuck the conductor. He wanted a solo. Staccato chop, followed by long flowing scales. Something abstract, like the jazz of a grittier New York City. Something to make him feel again.