UNDERGROUND VOICES: FICTION
Craziness has crippled him over the years, got him so down so that he found comfort on the ground, keeping it simple, outdoors, in the pure air. Nothing so solid as his little space in hell where he
It seemed a case of just putting in the time, for nothing better to do, a mechanical man on the move, left right, left right, doing what the bosses told him, yet avoiding authority whenever possible. For just the word authority in connection with someone or other made him laugh. And there were plenty of fools who thought they wore it like a set of clothes. It was best to stay away from them, forget them, better still. He had never had any inclination to play that game. He wasn’t one for playing games, but sometimes got pulled into undesired connections, found himself participating, though detesting the part he played. Yes, the involvement, for the most part, didn’t even reward the artist; he felt sickened by the banal, a queasiness that could ruin whole days. And always adrift when not reined in by the depression.
He gave nothing but his smile these days – take it or leave it, for he had no answers. He had no suggestions. He couldn’t possibly convey in words the desolation he felt at times. How does he radiate enthusiasm for the pointless? How many times can he say that he feels up against a wall? Does he just slide it in with the small talk? Or isn’t it easier to just let chance encounters slide off of him, like water off the duck’s ass? Yes, he sees you, he hears something, but it never registers above the voices in his own head. It is an ongoing soundtrack in there, and it won’t cease until the old seeker goes cold.
© 2004-2010 Underground Voices