just striking poses
He knew the poses of depression, he could strike them with hardly a second thought.
He swirled the ice in his tequila and put the song on. Oh! Sweet Nuthin’ by The Velvet Underground. It kicked on, slow and drooling, a fine musical accompaniment for the rain sliding down the glass on a half-lit Saturday afternoon.
Distant thunder rumbled like the thoughts behind his glasses. He took them off and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
It’s always love when you need the inspiration. When you’re bored on a rainy afternoon and want to throw around a bit of drama for no real reason, it’s always love. Generally the lack of, because if you’re bored on a Saturday, you can always pine for missing love, even if that love is only out on some commitment and will soon return.
It’s easier to strike those poses of depression if you’re experiencing actual lack; if you’ve got the distant thunder and the rain; if you’ve got the ability to send the proper song into your awareness; if you’ve got a slightly morbid soul.
He smiled at the sight of his depression in the window, the reflected image of a pose struck.
It was fast and fading though; the rain called through the window, warm spring drops singing through the air furthered his smile.
He realized he was in love with the ability to pretend; he realized he was in love with the glass that was being ever so slightly cooled by the warm spring rain; he realized he was in love with Oh! Sweet Nuthin’; in love with life itself.
He finished his tequila in one long fine sip as Oh! Sweet Nuthin’ rose to its climax, then stripped off his shirt as he ran outside into the embrace of the rain.
- finite
i just writes ‘em, this came out real fucking quick; ergo there’s probably some really stupid typo type beast living up in the piece.
oh well, just striking poses,
peace