Torn Apart

Memoir 2: Person, 2006

 

 

 

Labels gone, opinions obsolete, only the inner core of his being left raw. A hint of a smile always on his thin lips, he wants to smile; but wont for fear of the misconception that he really is happy.  The face. Hidden behind layers of makeup and sweat, pulsing with that natural high of energy as the music screams from his lungs. The heat of the room, the rhythmic beating from the Pevey amps; before him a sea of rage, the discord created by the bass, the pounding of the drums, the slamming riff’s of his 6-string. This is his arena.

 

Walking down a long road, head low, hands in pockets, always in his deep pockets. Ripped jeans, falling almost off his hips. Black jacket over Avenged Sevenfold, size slim. Black chucks, new, not written on, maybe muddy though. Short blonde hair, covering the eyes, gray. Hazel eyes. Swollen with the lack of sleep; too many late nights, closings never fun. Walking, walking, always walking. Down the endless road of life, waiting patiently, and sometimes not so much, for the end. Not caring when it comes as long as he can keep the truth of its eventual coming, close. Hair in his face, always in his face, a blonde goatee. A thin frame, shrouded in darkness by his attire. “Gayyy.”

 

A boy becoming a man, realizing the world doesn’t revolve around MARVEL comic heroes is hard to give up, maybe Spiderman is real? Playing halo is part of daily life, wishing always wishing to beat the drummer, at least once. Is he the ultimate guitar hero? The vocalist is better, “Hey he doesn’t even play guitar!” Beating each level, playing always playing. Sometimes slowly strumming, most times speeding through riffs, cords, and melodies. Accompanied by the screams, lungs out of breath. Trachea scratching.

 

Wondering, always wondering…she loves me, she loves me not. Spinning through the maze of life. Trying to get by at seventeen, the beauty of Social Darwinism… wait what does that mean? Barely making it to living in dough, where will I blow my next paycheck? Always inviting, apologizing, making the girl go first, holding the door and paying for her ticket even when its his last $16.

 

Driving, everywhere, in the old faded metallic silver and cerulean blue Chevy.  A two, and two half-door freedom. Equipped with blown speakers, a popcorn covered floor, and Trivium screaming in your face. First to their houses, then to church, then dairy Queen, make it strawberry, triple scoops…or maybe just a burger. Want some?

 

Waiting in line for the newest Dir En grey cd, maybe hours. Briefly smiling at the thought of his friends, who are at desks scribbling down notes and enduring lecture upon lecture (a never ending attack on the brain creating a callous so that by the end of the day all you remember from last period is how many bricks were in the wall.) Public school. Hey man home-schooling’s the way to go. “Gayyy.”

 

Work. Sub roll. Mayo. Mustar- …no mustard. Cheese, American or cheddar? … Swiss? Meat. Lettuce, tomatos…oh wait. You wanted the Italian sub? Damn. Making it big in the food industry, well who else is going to pay for new rims? Cosmetology is the real dream, though… someone has to pay for college. Always remembering that $16, maybe not just the money… Depressed. The pick work of the hardened musician, a massive array of art; cliché lyrics, trashy but good looking grungy outfits, and slammin’ almost off beat riffs, the new generation rises. Fame isn’t the only thing that brings eventual demise. Having something that close to perfection is. The road has gotten bumpy. The bands broken up and all their previously brandished and permanent hopes and dreams or making it big are gone, along with a few friends. So that’s how the Blues got famous.

 

Crumbling under the pressure of teenage life. A tragedy in the making. Never accepted, but not caring. A kid on a catwalk, waiting but not exactly caring about your critique. Do I pass or fail? Who cares again? Who should give a s**t about my life, this small existence when we life in a society who’s obsessed with complaining about a weatherman’s mistake? So your perfect…and I’m another perfect smile.