January 10, 2009
By Myles Dunder, Hillsborough, NC

Looking behind me, I realize that I've mad mistakes.
Hiding behind my usual curtain of hair, noone takes notice.

The paradox comes in how this statement applies figuratively and literally.
As the crowd cheers an inevitably losing team, I feel alone in a cluster of those who have chosen
to follow the same outcast conformist path as I. The path of the Marching Band.

Such sounds of cannons, revolution, and liberation seldom come from a group so uniform.
The lyricless melodies strike my heartstrings like harpstrings,
forcing me to break an attention to wipe away tears...
tears who's reason for existance others cannot understand.

But that is on the field.

When the tortured, yet denial stricken egotist Football Thugs retake the field, beauty to the ears is sacrificed to the unbearable urge to fly from this place.
Fly...for fear of what I fear.
For the undeserving animosity for another I have periodically injected myself with.

Her eyes are like burnt-out sunrise telegrams, unreadable and unbearable, yet irresistable.
Her smile only exists when I do not.
My want for her to dissapear is only exceeded by my want to catch her eye.

To purge myself of my venom for one moment...
to see those eyes , sparked into action by the shock that I am not too infected to make such a connection without breaking down.

To silently mouth "Smile. I don't hate you."

I fanticize an ideal reaction.
Her eyes explode in a supernovaeic nirvana unexplainable,
her lips mold into a smile that is likened to that of a siren,
inspiring shipwreck and toil just to get a closer look.

Perhaps she would laugh...
silencing all other reality to make way for the most gorgeous melody in the world.

Whitacre would weep, Mozart would rush in a panic to the paper to copy the chord structure by ear,
but to no avail.

None could replicate that epiphonic laughter but her.

But fantasies remain fantasies, and misery remains misery.

I will, of course, hone all the theatre skills I posess to pretend such a soul does not exist.

Assuming with studied estimation the one I daydream of feels the same as I.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.

Parkland Book