A Night of Stoicism

The ashes from my vice fall to the ground, twirling a very loose dance as they make their way toward my bare feet. I can hear the neighbor's television broadcasting drivel and mediocraty to whomever would listen. I am standing outside, what little wind whips through the air,

Would the call come? Would I be waiting in vain?

I had called earlier, wanting to talk to him. To see if everything was ok. Everything as it turns out, was not ok. Nothing major, mind you. Just a tired man on the end of the line. Didn't want to talk at the moment, said he would call me back.

Would the call come? Would I be waiting in vain?

I send out the hand-written letters, I send out the emails, I make the phone calls, but does it do any good I wonder? Would he remember? I open the door to the sound of my television. My own box booming it's own silent noise. Not quiet, in the sense that I can't hear it. But quiet in the sense that I don't pay attention to it, as my mind is somewhere else, on somebody else, at someother time.

Would the call come? Would I be waiting in vain?

The phone rings, it's a friend. Not the person I was wanting to talk to, but a welcome diversion nonetheless. We make small talk, the usual chit-chat. I hang up. I wait. And I wonder. And I think about my childhood how I had it all planned out. I was more naive than I am now. I still make mistakes, but not the same ones I've made in the past. I had it all planned out, I was thinking. I had it planned to the 'T'.

The call didn't come. I had been waiting in vain.

I make my way to bed, not turning off the television. I don't dare cry, but I can't help when I stay awake for the following two hours, mind racing with thoughts. "Why?" I wonder to myself, "Why can't I just be normal?"

But then a single spot of clarity hits me, of who amoung us freaks is normal? We've all got our secrets. We've all got our demons. And we've all got our vices. I guess I am just like everybody else after all.

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Junk Prose I
-By-
J