Skip to main content

Scout on Life and Death Part 1 - A woman,Lyra, watches people through their windows before taking their souls only to shower pity for one she may care for.

     The Ritz showered mercy on me today. The clouded window my transparent complexion peered into did not boast a couple or a family. The ragged clothes and wearing couch held an air of restlessness, evidence of many that visit and none who stay. I could sympathize with the dweller of this room, but I must only observe their final night. It neared midnight, but a person will work tirelessly, unbeknownst how close the end may be and how pointless their toil is. They never enjoy themselves before their souls rise; chasing a dream is more valuable than enjoying a nightmare. Yet whether I peered into a Manhattan penthouse or the many tenants of this creaking apartment complex, no one would be content with what they have. The chase is so surreal; it pleases you past what you receive from it. The idea of improvement is not for happiness, but rather self-importance.

            The creaking red wooden door peeling at the sides swung open slowly as a slouching man dragged his worn feet restrained by a shoe 2 sizes too small trudged inside. He was drunk, wasting the sanity of his possibly intelligent brain at the height of numbness. The respect of living is coming in unaware and leaving with bitter enlightenment. He could hardly make it to the coach before collapsing on the exhausted springs supporting the dead weight of his naivety. A picture frame clattered into the ground as his limp arms searched for someone who wasn’t there and would never come. Couldn’t I spare him, I thought? I knew that I was just as sensitive as the glass I became in the night and as insignificant and monotone as stone in the day. This was not an obligation I could reject, but I would postpone the rising of the empty soul for a day until it is full. A part of me did it for the man across the window, but another didn’t want to kill the only person I had sympathized with in years.

            He would live to stumble blindly around the Earth another day.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Scout on Cycles/Without Fail

      And so I return, back to the black and white letters and the soft clacking of the keyboard. I return after the rejection of my fragility, knowing now that the escape is temporary. How can I find meaning in this obscure trouble? How can I continue to be angry at the fleeting wind? When all is said in done, I sit in crowded rooms alone and listen to phones ring without an answer. I look around only to count how many people have run from me, mistreated me, and spit on my name. Shallow walls swallow me in whenever I walk, cloudy air consumes my sentences whenever I speak. That pit in my stomach doesn’t leave because it is my soul; broken, abused, self-pitying, and pathetic, but still my soul. It and I long for the day that it will be free to find its purpose. Today, I watched the breeze shuffle through the leaves, and I remembered the days when I would stare up at it and wonder if it was all the same. Every road had trees almost exactly alike, which I learned from...

Scout on Knowing/Tamo

  Tamo had hair that stuck up like it was animated, and probably the biggest eyes that I had ever seen. He used to cry almost every day, and just as often, I would get frustrated. Shouldn’t a six-year-old be past this stage? I wanted him to apply himself, to use the intelligence he clearly had. I taught him and the other seven or eight kids alone for almost a month, and eventually, the crying stopped. I told myself that it was I who had gotten him here, and my efforts had a true effect on him. There I was, feeling so proud about how good he was doing, when he went and started crying again. It hurt me when the waterworks came, and he wouldn’t explain why, just stare at me for periods as if he had something to say. I would ask what’s wrong, and he would shake his head, and I couldn’t do anything to get him back to his seat. Today was different, though; he hardly had any energy to cry. He lay on the floor, watching me again, but something had changed. No matter what teacher or parent ...

Scout on Trying/Mud

  The mud was the first sign. It was freezing outside, and I couldn’t find my gloves, so I tried to push the ice away from my car with my bare hands. They were numb, but it felt good. I was told my car would have trouble because of the ice, but it was the mud that kept swallowing it back into the ditch. I think that sums up maturing pretty well because what people tell you will be a problem almost never is. The ‘virtues’ of life come in as Trojan horses, and I naively let them in with an open heart and a blank mind. My mind was blank then, too, when I was pressing the gas as hard as I could, and instead of moving, I was treated with the fine smell of gas and burnt rubber. They told me to get rid of the mud so I could get out, but I couldn’t get rid of the mud unless the car got out. I was met with the same paradox that my therapist had presented me with: to become happy, you must practice the things you love, but I could only practice the things I loved once I was happy. Eventual...