September 15, 2011

Today was quite the melancholy day. I walked to Dunkin Donuts to eat--toasted wheat bagel and cream cheese, medium hot chocolate; I can't choke down coffee. I sat alone at a table for two and wrote, not for myself, but to someone else. I never write for myself anymore. The drizzle turned to rain and the rain to downpour, and I watched as juveniles crowded around a match to light their menthol cigarettes. Their ages ranged from fourteen to twenty, and I thought them all carbon copies of each other. They laughed and ran from the rain as if they were going to melt. I watched them come and go, multiply then divide, each their own direction home. The sight was anything but refreshing, more irrelevant and annoying than anything. Though I wasn't done with my relaxation, I stood up and left them all behind, tip-toeing through the rain and puddles, killing time. I didn't look before I crossed the street, I just crossed and I wished something would hit me. It's happened on that road before, the same situation, many times before. I didn't want to be injured, I just wanted somewhere to go. It's days like this that remind me of how unfit I am for high school. I watch people teeter-totter around and make friends and lose friends and float about, high on new drugs they're toying with. I prefer to walk, and I walk fast, trying to dart through the crowds to find refugee in worn-out lessons taught by worn-down teachers. It doesn't bother me, how could it if it's my choice? In nine months I'll be gone, all these faces will fade and high school will melt into the past. The children's matches will burn out and prick their fingertips, and they'll divide their separate ways and make new friends and divide once more. Their minty cigarettes will turn to ashes and as they crumble to water stained cement, I'll drive by and look for the one waiting to be hit, just to give them somewhere to go.