Foolish: An Interlude
I have this friend, who doesn’t know it.
A boy of many words, all of which vary in length, meaning and origin. A boy of many places, hailing from New England, only to be found in New England years after his birth. A boy of a significant rearing- perhaps similar to mine, but at this moment, remains undiscovered by yours truly. This boy- in essence, the boy, knows me like most. She’s crazy and funny. Smart N sassy. Maybe a bit too young. But overall, she’s a girl…that I can relate to. He knows me like that, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t said those things, perhaps, those words, have never even crossed his mind! It’s atrocious, and detrimental (mind you) to think, that just because I think ever so highly of him, doesn’t mean that he understands, and in exchange, has his own thoughts of me. He’s my favorite one in town. He walks with an unchallenged swagger- although, deep down he’s broken- deep down, he’s just as anxious as me. Deep down he knows this interlude is addressed to him. But he hides,
he hides behind a false persona, and he expects me to laugh, like the rest of the folk we remain in sync with. In town, I rarely see him. There were phases, where, I did, on occasion, run in to him, walking up & down the hills (can you even call them that), where I’d run into him, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, his eyes darting from place to place, without any given pattern, or any specific subject.
Unlike most however, I don’t look at him as just another funny guy. Yes, he has a sense of humor- but that of course is not his defining quality. He speaks out to me, whether he knows it or not. His 15 year old boyish demeanor (even though his age in real life is far beyond those years) wins me over, the quirkiness and how he carries himself. Bad posture. No sense of time, and in addition- no sense of consequence? He’d argue this, that’s for sure, but I see it. He may think things through, but he thinks things through for the moment, not for the future. Whether or not he knows this- even with his wonderful qualities, and his pas desired ones, he is my other. He knows me deep down. His prose narrates it. And I need him to realize, that I, yes, I, am his narrator, to this tragic tale, of life, love, death, and what’s to come next.