a View from an AntiSocial

I arrive like the air floating through the room. Quietly and unnoticed I make my way into the party area and have a look around. Music’s playing loud; no one is interested in conversation. There’s a spot by one of the stereo speaker — nope, it was just taken by that couple who’s been kissing all afternoon. There’s an available spot beside the fish tank. It’s just as good.

I sit down, leaning against the arm of a couch that is covered with people. None of them notice me standing there, due to their kissing, hand-holding, and eye contact with others who are coming or going. Conversation is just as silent as the music is loud. Reverse.

Still, though I had been invited by two people, I sit quietly. Is there a reason to dance? Has someone shown interest? I’ve looked. I’ve found none. So, I sit quietly, watching the happenings going on around me without a word to disturb the silence that lingers. The smile upon my face is not because I’m having a good time, rather it’s because I’m laughing about the events I’m watching directly in front of me.

To look across the room and see lips moving, likely offering sound to someone so close to the person, it would be surprising if they couldn’t hear. Perhaps, she should scream into their ear as the speakers are screaming at everyone within range. Still, I hear nothing. I see lips moving, hands waving, smiles offered; none of it directed at me. I simply nod my head to the imaginary beat of my own imaginary song while my mind begins playing scenes of the party that I would be tempted to use in a story. — Why would I want to bring back the memory of being so cold?

Hands are clapping. Someone fell over drunk. People are laughing. Everyone’s drunk. The whole point of the party was to show up drunk, drink to get drunk, leave because you’ve gotten drunk, or pass out because you’re too drunk. Wait, what’s the point?

Eyes glance in my direction. They wander passed, unable to recognize me from the person sitting beside me. Even still, they wouldn’t have recognized me; I’m unknown to you. Conversation, the intellectual words spoken between two people so they become acquainted with one another — it’s an event that has not happened and likely will not happen between us. You don’t know me, nor I you.

Unnoticed, I wander to the porch, watching and smiling as I step over a couple motionless bodies lying about the floor, avoiding the human waste that was and will be, long after I leave. I get the scent of fresh air and a new thought enters my mind, teasing me to leave this wondrous place.

I breathe in to fill my lungs, catching the scent of drugs and cigars being smoked at the other end of the porch. If only I had a blue uniform and handcuffs; that would be something worthy of a gut-felt laugh.

Turning back to look over the banister, I step aside to allow one of the party goers a section to vomit in peace, before he trips and slides down the stairs like an unwanted package left on a doorstep. I sigh and wonder if he’ll remember how the bruises got there in the morning; if someone will eventually tell him the truth of the matter, or if everyone will claim that he got beaten up for allegedly trying to molest the daughter of the homeowner. — It’s not my problem.

Before walking back into the house, I stop. I pause a moment when my eyes catch sight of the crowd of people already inside. Should so many people be allowed in one room? Do I really want to hang out with people that I’ve never actually met? What’s the point of being invited by people who care, if they really don’t? I turn and jump from the side of the porch, over the railing to land on my feet, unlike the other three people who tried leaving after attending the party. They’re still lying on the steps and in the yard. None of them noticed me walking through the yard.

Thoughts of having fun, my way, tease me on my way home. I could have sparked up conversation about Elton John’s music, Billy the Kid, The Mona Lisa, or even Boy George’s famous tophat collection. Did I dare? No. I’m wiser than that. Such topics interest those who are interested; annoy those who are not. Why share my wisdom with such people who show in each passing that they don’t care for themselves? – It’s the right thing to do.

I sit down to write. A story, a journal entry, a poem that no one will ever see. What’s the point? I’ll have written and read it and seen it, to know that it’s real. It’s there for me when I need it, not like those who claim my friendship and leave it be after a couple shared breaths. My writing is there for me like no person could ever be. I can share with it anything in which I choose worthy, and it will never betray or fault me.

There’s a smile on my face when I lay down the pencil. The paper is satisfied, too.


2 thoughts on “a View from an AntiSocial

  1. Boy George has a top hat collection!? I must hit Google to have a look. :)
    Writing is a lonely gig, but such a satisfying one. I love how this piece elaborates on the relationship we have with our worlds and our stories, but can’t seem to explain to the rest of the world–which is probably why writers seem to have a kinship with each other that not many other people understand.

    Thanks for sharing this!

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