by Adam Muro

Created on: December 19, 2009

This is Why People Write Songs

“This is why people write songs,” his mother said. He didn't care. All the songs in the world could not console him. Every musical score in either treble or bass meant nothing to him. “Oh, its just part of life,” he imagined his father would say, if he were ever to tell him. But he just wasn't that kind of father. His sisters weren't old enough to help. At 11 and 14, respectively, they couldn't be expected to have any useful input.  And friends? Not likely. So this left him exactly where he approximated he and every other human being faced with a love unrequited was: alone: completely and utterly alone.           

He pulled himself out of his mind and put out his cigarette, one step closer to death. He saw his life measured in cigarettes. How many would it take for a tumor to develop? Or at a rate of how many packs per month would his lungs no longer be able to function? It was the only thing that seemed real to him.Maybe that's why he ignored the constant pleas of his acquaintances to quit. He walked down the stairs and swiped his card at the turnstile. The 6 came quickly.  As he glanced around the car he mistakenly made eye contact with a scary looking man who immediately wanted revenge. Great. Another day, another, however ephemeral, enemy made. To avoid any other potential subway car nemesis, he glued his eyes to the window, making eye contact with his reflection. It was, it seemed, the only person who would have his gaze. He did not take comfort in that fact. As he gazed into his own sunken eyes, he gave himself a quick evaluation. Hair: not quite right. Blazer: too small and cheap looking. Face: too fat, and did he really call that a close shave? It had become a typical thing, this self-depreciation. But where had it all gone wrong. He could only think of her.          

She would be his downfall, he was sure of it. Ever since the day he met her, three years and however many months ago, he could think of nothing else. Contact with her became a means by which his biorhythms and vital signs were regulated. He knew that this couldn't be healthy but he saw no other way to live. Every night, he prayed to wake up in a different world, with no memory of her existence. That would be ideal. But no. He didn't really want that. Maybe that's why God didn't grant him his only wish. He kept trying to ask her out. Dropping subtle hints in

• 1
• 2
• 3
• Next Page >>