He stands trembling in the middle of the room like a slender papaya tree in a tropical rainstorm. Slowly he unfurls blossoming out towards the edges of the room as his eyes resolve themselves into points of darkness.
He needs space to express his madness.
And then a howl is torn from his throat shattering the crystalline icicles of conversation. They were talking about Plato. And poetry. And roses. And second-level signification.
He needs space to express his madness.
A wall is inanimate. It doesn't mind if you smash it. It won't complain if you call it ugly. It never leaves.
He needs space to express his madness. Space and an audience.
He comes for the wall with a mop carelessly left there by someone has never seen the demon gaze or heard the enraged animal cry emerge from this small, neat, dapper person. He raises the mop to bring it crashing down on... but trips on a pool of porridgy vomit. The mop is sent flying as the wall cowers in a corner and whimpers.
He doesn't hear.
He needs space to express his madness.
Space and an audience.
And there is always tomorrow to unmake tonight. Whisky cancels memory and with it consequences.
And walls, even the animate ones, don't tell tales.
3 comments:
Hello! Hello! Been such a loooong time lady. Hows you doing?
Such cheap lame excuses people make for crazy, destructive behavior. I had an acquaintance (oh I cannot even bring myself to call him a friend) who always bailed himself out pleading his state of (lame ass) drunkenness as his defense whenever he would beat her girlfriend up during his one-too-many drunk episodes and beat this - he had audience-fetish as well (just like the one you so vividly described in this post) This entry gave me the chills.
Grey: I am doing like that lor. Good to have you back.
John: Yeah. I realised though that the girlfriend has to participate in this sort of behaviour by not leaving these lame excuses for people. Not that I excuse it on any count. Thanks.
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