Tuesday, July 26, 2011

I'll Just Have an Order of Fries

Overcast Sunday and fittingly so; melancholic breeze, faint scent of recently smoked American Spirits, and the static of an AMC classic (probably A Few Good Men considering they play that more often than Nicki Minaj changes weaves) blaring in the background. How depressingly glorious and not to mention an ample feast for the masochistic soul. Fucking Hemingway shit up in here.

The air tonight is smooth as glass, as opposed to yesterday's thickness that could be sliced with a butcher's knife. Not taking a walk tonight would be a crime of significant amplitude. Not only does it remedy a turbulent mind, but it enriches a sense; a sense I like to stimulate in terms of my unuttered relationship with people. I like to observe. I've got a kaleidoscopic eye on everyone. I like to look at people and take notice. Notice what they're trying to say without opening their mouth.

I walk by an uncouth looking group of kids. Kids who look like they breaststroked through a dumpster, gelled their hair with epoxy adhesive, and substituted their eyeliner with tar. But if you take a closer look, you see much more. It got me thinking, especially since Amy Winehouse's death. Their hair, their tattered clothes, even the meticulous way they hold their Newports...what could their message convey? Do they even have a message?

The echelon of kids, adorned in gender ambiguous haircuts and "street trash" garments come off as nebulous and peculiar at first. I've always noticed the way I style myself correlates to how to the way I was feeling at the time. I found my clothes and style as a sanctuary and escape to the world around me. It's a symbiotic relationship utilized for coping.

Some of these kids have been hurt so bad they push the world so far away just so it won't hurt them again. But we dress like this because the only thing worse than being in pain is being ignored; so we gotta exhibit a look that says "pay attention, but don't get too close." Some go to lengthy measures to guarantee their solitude, either hiding behind a curtain of substance abuse, or blending with the friendly hands of solidarity. Either way, it has to come out somehow.

So thanks to the coterie of kids who made my walk that night sacred. No uncanny rhetoric of mine could do you justice. You did that yourself by just loitering while your identity silently exiled itself through your presence. Thanks for teaching me that I don't need the burger. I'll just have an order of fries.

And that's enough to get me by. 

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