Wednesday, March 12, 2008

As Fantasies Clash With Reality

I think when something you moderately enjoy becomes a requirement, it sort of loses its initial flare. Sure the concerts were fun to go to. I felt like I was experiencing something worth while. But now that I have to sign in and complete a packet of concert reviews for a grade makes it seem a bit too stifling. I don’t know maybe I’m just lazy.

Anyway, so when I was there, I sat at the first seat I came across despite the room being almost empty. As it slowly filled up with people, I looked up from my book and noticed a guy who sat in front of me. He wore a fitted white shirt with blue trim around the collar and sleeves, wrinkles everywhere as if it had been compressed for days. As the show continued, I found myself more captivated by him rather than the music. Or should I say, the music added a forlorn quality to the situation that was probably atypical of its intentions.

I loved the shape his hair made. The shaggy imperfection that made it interesting to look at, the impression of moisture as if it had just recently been cut. Above his left ear were a few strands of hair that were longer than the rest that maybe slipped by unnoticed told of a length once traveled. As he sat there, I noticed his wrists where fairly thin compared to the hand that kept his head afloat. I traced his arm back to his back and took notice of the hint of hair that coated his pale skin. It was equally thin yet his body seemed pretty substantial. Skinny without being third-world. Definitely enough to fit a medium sized shirt.

Gradually he would slouch, then prostrated himself back up by placing both hands on either side and correcting his posture, only to hunch over so that his hand could rest on his chin. With his left hand he would trace his brow, then move over to his mouth before finding a place on his cheek. He repeated this in various orders as his right hand propped it up or clutched his side between his chest and his arm. Almost instantaneously I could feel myself sliding my hands across his arms. I wondered what his hands would feel like cupping my face. I could feel his stubble against my lips. His arms around my body. Us lying together, lost in a sea of blankets.

I tried to include my appearance into the thought and suddenly it dissolved. Somehow the thought of me with anyone seemed out of place. Like I didn’t possess some kind of inherent quality that people have to be apart of something. You can tell when there’s a connection between two people. I just couldn’t fathom one of those people being me.

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