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Monday, November 29, 2004
He
He was pissed off at everything today. It was an unfounded anger seething in him, pushing upon his breast like a fine-tuned hammer. He did not know where it had come from; it had appeared so soon and did not let an inch.
He read from his anatomy book. His eyes fell upon the page and the words strung into sentences in his head. The sentences were of little meaning and only incensed him. In sickly struggling force, he slammed his book closed. Pushed it away from him.
He refuses to read it now. He cannot. He will later on, tonight. Maybe then he can make sense of it.
He wants to run until he falls over, unconscious. He wants his breath to leave his mouth. His heart to stop. His mind to dissipate its incessant whiny useless, poignantly stupid, thoughts.
He would like to say goodbye, but the show must go on. He must put on his clothes each day, be the actor, fret and strut upon the stage as an imagined image of himself – as a great Gatsby, as it were. It cannot cease nor let; it is irrelevantly streaming on forever. Only when the curtain palls each night will he have time to unmask, unclothe, and lie alone as himself as well as he knows. Only when the largest curtain of them all palls over him can he no longer exist, and not dwindle in his existence, and feel useless, frustrated anger about the something of nothing.
But for now he stands upon the stage, irascible. Yet there is nothing to take it out upon. So he shall take it out upon the floor of a treadmill later on, and stamp and stamp upon its ground until it breaks.
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