prose
WRITTEN:
1984, 17 years
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Written on my 17th birthday, this piece has to do with my less-than-sociable relations with my father. It was raining heavily and I was comfortably nestled in my room, with a small lamp on (so that I could keep my furtive scribblings on the page and not have them wandering all over the desk) and the curtains slightly open so I could look out on the rain pelting down and flattening the garden. In stomps my father to "suggest" that I join him and my mother for lunch. This was contrary to the previous agreement (following a loud argument) that I wouldn't bother to show for lunch. My father also had a thing about not having the light on in my room if the curtains weren't closed, as he was paranoid about people being able to see in and "case the joint". Anyway, a rather personal piece.
There have been long talks and now there is anger.
Rain falls aggressively into the garden and the skies light up an unnatural pink with sudden fluency. The body is positioned before a window and the eyes are directed towards the collapsing shrubs.
There is a mood lingering and tasting of sadness: the senses perceive loss and savagity.
Another walks through: evanescent. Comments are made in regards to eating and sociability. A snapping of the jaws and a rejection is issued forth. Memories defeat hopes with predictable accuracy, with known infallibility, and dreams die and ideas rust.
The purpose of this exchange is unclear to me: I am between understanding and knowledge ability.
Looking towards the door, he notices things. The lamp on the small table by the window, and the curtains not fully drawn.
He is displeased.