Dying Bell
[Virgo and Gemini come together in perfect cacophony.]
Five years prior to the present, I am found nursing a lukewarm soda. In the spotlight of a common scowl in the epicenter of a middle school graduation, the brightness of it all was just starting to draw first sweat. The effort to engage in the goings-on of the evening were in earnest but I on the other hand had felt like a fish out of water, similar to that of a sea animal of the queer variety.
Either way, the district’s idea of spending a heavily-advertised festivity on a public school’s budget did lead to an endearing attempt at camaraderie, if only the utter isolation hadn't left me itching to flee since the get-go.
The fact that it was all happening at a training gym for circus performers was definitely proving itself to be quite the thing I knew had already become the perfect analogy to describe my time spent so far as a human of my own evolution. It made no sense at all whatsoever, and due to a funky odour, the need in change of location was now greatly burdening. I could sense that things were about to change — but not as much as they're ample to — given the circumstances of being promoted from lesser education to a quote-unquote higher. A heel turn had erupted in me, encouraged by a brief stint in being a total prick to everyone I knew at the time.
Safe to say it had lead to my name growing synonymous with Mussolini, thus the complete lack of teary-eyed goodbyes on anyone’s behalf to me, which made more sense than I had wished it would.
Discussion of this day leads to those nearby to hollow out their horses for fear of a flogging, but by oath I now swear to bring up only the kinder parts of it all. Looking back, it was the day I'd figure out what war vets meant whenever they'd flashback to their time spent in the trenches, and how they were able to get through it all by merely sticking with someone who had cared enough to refer to them as their comrade.
For now, we were acquaintances at the time who used each other’s most glaringly-obvious traits we had either seen on the other, or heard about from friends of ours, to greet each other with. But little did I know, we would be attached at the hip yet.
By this point in time, we are both completely unrecognizable.
Five years prior to that day in question, the moon had made no appearances in the blizzard of night when we moved. I only remember it all so well because the morning after, Saddam Hussein was discovered hidden in that barren-looking cavern of his.
All of the friends I had made from my old school were never able to get a hold of me now, and the transition of getting acquainted with the people from my new school took eons.
I rolled with a tight unit of meek losers, and now had to figure out a way to fit in with these new kids who seemed advanced and hip; nonchalant and cool. They orchestrated their laughter with a subdued wit; worse yet, they knew how to skateboard. My only perk was that I learned how to read at a second-grade level when I was five. Eventually, some of them considered me a convenient acquaintance whenever around, and that was enough for me.
All of them hanging out without me was definitely a common occurrence, but I'd still wake up every morning and play second fiddle to the likes of class clowns and smart alecks.
Dividing the time spent from ivory jubilee to the quindecennial year of my life, I was taken more seriously and from that I morphed into something a bit more mature. Reaping the rewards of a middle school territory. All of a sudden, people I was meeting with in the flesh had liked me enough to invite me to hang out.
They laughed at my jokes and seemed to somehow enjoy my company — the act of shaking off the dusty rags that were my sense of self and putting it on one day at a time was a rough transition to even begin with. It was exciting and foreign; responsible and new. When you're spending time with company much larger than you had ever hoped to humour suddenly begin acknowledging you as an important piece of the way they function — it can mess you up in the best ways possible.
But as always, the focal point to any allegory involving assigned worth ends with the moral of the life lesson being: if you fly too close to the sun, you will plummet.
Parental separation you choose not to open up about roughens up your thought process. You call it “maturity,” and it lands you with strange behaviour that causes the ones closest to you to worry whether you’re molding into something… different. All your priorities begin to dysfunction, and coagulation quickly renders your demeanor from easy and fluid to frozen shut. It seems like anything but a serious issue to you, but the kayfabe has since lost all meaning long ago.
All of those thoughts and cells in your body begin making do with this alien that was once you.
One eye opens, the other demands it close itself shut for more sleep. Sleep at a certain point becomes less about rest and more about escape from the waking life. Waking life is gruesome and demands attention to detail and attention to detail requests a certain amount of worry and worry is tantamount to anxiety and anxiety equals increased heartrate and increased heartrate reminds you of the fact that alcoholism runs in the family. The sun doesn't rise anymore. It only exists in a state of perpetual decline, and now it even lets you align your body clock to sync with it.
This isn’t living anymore, it’s a hiding meant for a cavern-dweller. And from what? Growing up? You scold yourself constantly and that only makes it all worse. You've become your own abusive life coach, disguised as a self-help guru.
I learn how some bridges burn for the benefit of both sides.
The shroud of self-doubt clears, and I find I’m at a graduation ceremony sponsored by this place that used to be my elementary school which then took the form of middle school.
I feel I’m on the verge of both loss and gain.
All of a sudden, the final bell rings in the form of a G-rated version of a happy hour’s ending. I set my warming soda down and feel the glare of everyone I've worn out my welcome with. An out-of-place boy named Billy, who I had seen around before, asks if he can share a ride with me. The principal has demanded everyone be escorted home tonight so I see no problem with it.
The two of us parade outside to the back door of my father’s car. We exchange small talk and I realize how comfortable I am with said small talk. Our conversation from the ceremony eases into conversation at a mutual friend’s house that summer, and that conversation bleeds into conversation we have all throughout high school.
We might as well be asking each other if the top button is too high up to button a shirt from now ‘till our deathbeds.
With him, I realize that I have found what I have been on the lookout for my entire life — a comrade.
Retreating into the dark of my consciousness doesn’t appeal to me, and hasn’t ever since we’ve become so tight-knit. I imagine that the waking life will make more and more sense to me with him around. We've been a part of larger circles and lesser circles, but the axis tends to leave with either of us always rotating around the conversation we're having, or the juvenile in-jokes we're hiding our faces at.
I was once a dull subject of nature with my existence leaking out of the seams but in the span of these five years, I’ve since grew sharp as a bayonet, all with the help of a friend; two compatriots venturing at lightspeed pace through the trenches of yonder.
