K

She is an intensely sad person. She blames society for all of her problems, always assigning blame on everyone around her instead of acknowledging her own shortcomings. She espouses equality, but what she wants isn’t equality. She wants a complete reversal where she is on top and marginalizing those who marginalized her. She can’t even comprehend what true equality is. Everything is an eye for an eye. She can never forgive, or just let bygones be bygones. She sees every action as a personal attack done specifically to make her life harder. She can’t see that she is not everyone’s main thought. She refuses to accept that someone simply didn’t hear her hello. She only sees them purposefully ignoring her. Every word that comes out of her mouth is a double edge sword, laced with politeness and burning condemnation. Nothing she says is purely the words on her tongue, it’s the ice in her eyes and the fire in her tone. She is vindictive and small minded. Even when she is happy she is holding her breath, waiting for the catch. She can’t see from anyone’s perspective but her own. She is a black hole, drawing in all light and consuming it indefinitely to make herself bigger.

K

Red Hat

This man, this boy man, this person who has a male boy. This person is waiting. And dancing. And eating. And is happy in this moment. Or is trying to be happy in this moment. The person, dancing. This person lost in their own body, in their own mind. This person, knowing people are watching and not caring. Or caring but liking it. This person is performing their emotions. They feel the music inside of them and want to be the music. Or feel the music in a new way. Or to show others. Or to practice. Or this person just can’t keep still. This person may be aware of others watching them, this person doesn’t seem to care. Or likes the attention. Or wants someone to join in. Or doesn’t give a shit about anyone and does what they want. Or they give all the shits and want others to be interested. To accept them. To validate them. To know them. He his doing what she wishes she could do. She is watching and he is performing for her. Then he is one forever. Only to return again. She stops watching, and he vanishes.

Red Hat

Mirror of Water

The girl, calling herself this because she doesn’t feel like an adult, sits on the hard tile. This woman, who knows she is a woman but hates that this word has to come from the word man, stares at the multitude of people walking by. She chooses the word multitude because it sounds nice, phonetically it gives her a small joy. This person, who prefers person to woman because she feels it better represents the baseness of all people, enjoys being a part of the crowd, enjoys watching others , enjoys partaking in tiny slices of their lives, enjoys validating their lives by observing, enjoys knowing that she is not alone. That other people exits. That other minds exist. That other worlds exits. She just wants to be a part of something.

Mirror of Water

3AM

The lights dim. The music gets noticeably louder. You can feel the increase in volume deep down in your bones. The sound abruptly stops, and everyone in the room freezes. Time stands suspended in midair. The room collectively holds its breath in anticipation for the life force to be restored. A window is cracked and cigarettes are inhaled. There is an icy chill that reaches into the inner being of every person in the room. It is a blanket, lightly flowing over the group. Music swells and the heart beat jumps, the musical beat entwining with the heart beat and becoming one. There aren’t separate bodies, it’s all one. A body sharing a space, moving collectively. The pace slows, the words sing pure emotion and consumes the room. The American flag hanging upside down on the wall, lightly illuminated in the foreground. Even those on the fringes are a part of the overwhelming energy, pulsing along with the ever present heart. It’s a true collective. Differing backgrounds and lifetimes of decisions leading all these separate paths to cross, momentarily, in this point in time. Reality is not enough on its own.

3AM

Grand Central Station

There once was a bird. This bird, it lived in the clouds. By itself. This bird flew in and out of the clouds all day every day. It observed as other birds went in circles. It observed as people below walked in angles and points. It liked to trace the tracks of the people with different colors in its head. The man with the blue hiking backpack, with a watch on his left wrist, a belt, tan pants and a grey shirt. The attractive woman with grey white hair, black boots, grey jacket. The bird flew above their heads and watched as this man and this woman walked past each other. Both of them having made a lifetime of decisions which led them, all three,  to be at this place at this time. Their lives were connected by this one moment. This one instance. They didn’t even look at each other, or know the other existed. Each trapped in the internal lives of their mind. Both in the same place at the same time, but passing in opposite directions, never making contact. Never knowing the possibilities. The bird watched them as they walked and completely missed each other. Then the bird flew away.

Grand Central Station

Two Separate Wholes

They sit on opposite sides of the room, each buried in their own blanket with a book of plays in front of each of their faces. The one in the yellow sweater speaks softly.
Karen woke up from her coma.
The other, in a purple and grey sweater, responds relieved.
Oh good.
They continue reading. The one in the purple and grey sweater speaks.
Marry is beating the fucking shit out of people.
The other laughs and they continue reading. They are keeping each other updated on their respective plays. They are enjoying sharing their worlds. Their excitement is bright and luminous. It is sugar. It is green tea. It is soft and light and wonderful. It is pure happiness. The two women are beautiful. The two women are clever and intelligent. They are rays of sunshine. They are pure.

Two Separate Wholes

Valentine

Flowers are placed thoughtfully on the center of the table. Daisies, not roses, a bit quirky. Two plates of pasta sit on the table, accompanied by a wine glass filled with liquor and a martini glass filled with water. The man pulls two chairs from the hall and places them with care at each end of the table in the center of the room. It’s a surprise for her. She doesn’t know these plans, nor does she care about this holiday. He knows this. He also knows she will hate it, which is his entire purpose behind it. This is a game for both of them. She is trying to push him away by pulling him closer and poking at his wounds. He’s trying to make her admit that her judgments on him are incorrect. She thinks he doesn’t care, so he elaborately constructs situations for her to over react and leave. This is his game, drawing amusement from seeing how far he can stretch her. She is resisting his games by playing into his bullshit. It is a game neither of them can win and neither of them is happy. But they can’t end it. They will continue with this cycle until they both self-destruct.

Valentine

Grand Central Stairs

She stands in front of him. He sits not looking up at her. She stares at him. He continues to not look at her. She reaches her right hand to brush his cheek and he pushes her away. She tries to say something but he shakes his head. She sighs. He is sitting on the stairs and she is standing looking down at him. He continues to stare at his phone. She sits next to him one stair down. She wants to say something. She opens her mouth to say something, but closes her mouth and raises her hand to her cheek. They continue to sit. He continues to stare at his phone. She continues to stare ahead. She looks over at him. She stares. He looks at her and smiles. She stands up and takes a couple steps away and reaches out her hand to him. He stands without her help and walks into her jokingly. She turns to walk, He walks by her side. She bumps her arm into his, an offering, a question, a plea. They walk down the hallway, not holding hands.

Grand Central Stairs