no ability to hide

Running with no ability to hide, and softly glancing at the sun, he tries to get away. He wants to be far lost in the labyrinthine rays of introspection, and to be first in the game of disease. Let’s get really sick, he thinks. It all sounded inviting--to build imaginary walls to hide behind, away from the danger of society, long past the noisy sounds of the planes, the buses, the cars, and the way they smelled, filth and perverted exhausts, and people, we can’t forget them; they’ve done him much harm, away from them. Hide behind his manufactured barricade. The taste of fear in his mouth does great harm to the objectivity of his escape. He is afraid. Scratch that idea, he thinks sometime. Forget about it. And he would, for days and days, doing his lonely job of a parking garage clerk, eating apples and oranges with the thought of Syd Barrett, sleeping, yes, sleeping; but he was to have nearly none of this soon. This was his decision; it was all about him. First of all, it seemed that he had the perfect characteristics for the escape: selfish, isolated, unable to feel any sort of pleasure. Nothing interested him, he merely spent much of the night staring at the carpet. But, yes, now, now he was beginning to see faces on the floor. They were not spooky or frightening in anyway, just a harrowed, destined to break up earth and dirt--the filth that he calls his own apartment. He needed something, something quick, or he was to slip away, far away--where the poisons didn’t affect him, where the uncanny disbelief in the powers of love. He’d never loved anyone, just himself, well used to, but now, everything had simply shut off, like a light, so he stars at the sun: hoping for the star’s help to enter the abyss with dignity and honor. But what was honor? He never felt that, of course. And he was indignant as hell, all the time, critical, with the occasional trip to the supermarket where he would look at the fruit. They all seemed so alive, perfect. He squeezed a papaya. That is real, he thought. But, he still never felt the sense of being alive. Well, that is not true, I suppose, when he was sixteen-- yes he remembers that so well-- he felt happy. Actually happy. His memory is clogged now with suspicion and deviant memories of the operation. As he sits, looks down at what is in his hand, smiles, and falls slowly into the watery abyss.