Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Cascade, Like Ourselves

I've noticed something.

Whenever things start spinning out of control, whenever the boring and ever-present tears start forming in my eyes, I usually want to scream into a pillow. Beat the shit out of the wall. Have a big, fat, ugly cry. It happens to us all; I'm sure it's a reaction. I go in circles. It usually depends who I'm angry at. Sometimes I keep the insults running. I throw them back at myself just so I can hold them and cradle them close to some vital organs. Then it gets as painful as it can get to a fifteen year old who's never gone to bed with half an empty stomach or the sound of gunshots across the street, and I can't do it. I can't make myself cry anymore.

Sometimes I think I like being angry. I like crawling somewhere and crying. I like it so much it's become something common. My parents and brother can see me crying and they can sigh and turn away because, really, I probably had the same bits of streaming tears and a red face a few hours ago, maybe a few days ago if I'm lucky. It's nothing new. Just the same old routine, getting boring already.

I don't cry to fuck around with people. Seriously, I don't. Scout's honor. I cry because I'm too much of a weakling to hold back tears at times when regular people can do it.

But when it gets really painful, I try to let it go in some way. Some strange way. I'm trying to hold back any more crying or screaming, and usually whoever was looking at me is turning away. Or I'm hiding. And I think of Dream, a good ten years from now, twenty-three, or maybe eighteen at the lowest, twenty-five, tops, dressed in blue, a helmet that hides her away, climbing onto a stolen motorcycle. And this older, taller, stronger, suited Dream gets on the motorcycle and rides off. And I imagine her crossing roads and running red lights and launching herself in front of trucks and to other lanes. Never stopping, always moving. My head projects the little details. She never talks. She never takes off her helmet. I don't know why I would think it's her or why I know it's her--it's not like I ever imagine the motorcyclist giving any hints towards her identity. I just know it's Dream. And she's driving away.

Never stopping. Always moving.

1 comment:

  1. Darth, people cry. Different people cry at different times for different reasons. If you're feeling overwhelmed by school, by the not-so-holy giraffe, by the Subbjugglator, or suddenly you just feeling like something needs to be thrown across the room right here, right now, do it. Humans are weird, Darth, and even if your family just sees your stress as daily routine you don't need to feel bad about your feelings.

    You just got to be going with what feels right where your heart is all up at, you know?

    If that even fits the situation.


"Science and science fiction have done a kind of dance over the last century... The scientists make a finding. It inspires science fiction writers to write about it, and a host of young people read the science fiction and are excited, and inspired to become scientists...which they do, which then feeds again into another generation of science fiction and science..."
- Carl Sagan, in his message to future explorers of Mars.