At some point, the music that’s been playing loses its hypnotic hold over you. The same old notes you’ve been dancing to for all this time no longer slide straight down to your legs and make you jump around on command. They stick in your ear and you have to keep smiling and dancing the same way so no one notices you’ve changed.
But inside, to yourself, you ask yourself, “Is this what I’ve been letting into my core? Is this what those punk musicians have been selling me?” All the while, still shuffling and capering about, smiling and nodding, while an unseen audience sometimes throws peanuts at you, sometimes shit. (If the peanuts don’t get covered in the shit, then you can eat them and keep your energy up, so you think they’re a reward for a job well-done. But you’re never sure. Your unseen audience isn’t very talkative.)
The notes now jangling and buzzing in your ear. Your head vibrating, unpredictably, sporadically as they try to get to your feet. Or to get out.
Time to try some new dance steps. But no one ever showed you how. Welcome to the human race, chump. God bless you.
The dark wet cold night. Not enough rain to need an umbrella, just enough to make you miserable. The cab driver takes the long way around to ensure maximum revenue and you can’t really say a goddamn thing. All the transit went to sleep before they turned back into pumpkins and here you are, bouncing and jostling in the back seat of an almond-scented cab.
Sleep won’t come, and so you smile inside and out when you escape into the smog-tinted air and see that, even though it’s nearly midnight, the sushi place across the road is still open. This is both your blessing and curse, that this appeals to you more than the vine-covered suburban cottage where the only thing open after 11 is the 24 hour coffee place. But better to be walking, and rained on, than stay there all night and have the boredom of eight foreign languages floating past your ears while their coffee coats your tongue with the bitterness of too much life spent in this suburban hell.
So you walk down Yonge Street, the annoying rain not quite soaking you and not leaving you dry while you drink in the neon signs and the darkened windows. You marvel at the number of Korean restaurants still open. Do you marvel because they’re Korean, or because they’re still open?
The subway is closed, the tracks being maintained, so you walk and feel the rain and air baptize you back into the city as you walk finally to the bus stop to catch the shuttle bus that will take you closer to south and your heart and further away from north and your sorrow.
Makes the start much more smooth. Now to see how long the meanness lasts…I think it will turn back into a comedy at some point. I think.