I don't know what to say.
I don't know what to think.
I don't know how to fix this utter catastrophe threatening—no, demolishing every single goal I had been relentlessly working at since I was a just wide-eyed child learning the in's and out's of Disney Channel fame. Those eyes, darting relentlessly, now find themselves searching for ones writing an essay of calamity onto the bags of emotion sitting under her eyes — the sole cause for the affliction searing through my ribs to settle around my heart, the violent pulsates pushing me toward deserved culpability.
I slowly step back, breathless, until my back makes impact with the textured bark, and I let myself fall back onto it, my body sinking into the mass of leaves now scattered all over the terrain. Traitorous tears force my eyes shut; the word "hypocrite" tattooed behind my lids, and "disappointment" slowly, but surely, chipping away at my soul.
END OF SCENE 5
—
INT- OUTDOOR, DUSK
r.
Innumerable, heavenly bodies bask in their own plasmatic warmth; mystical wonders constantly overcome with the urge to bathe the universe in their splendor, continually pursuing the paltry mortals luxuriating in the glimpse of their inescapable warmth. Even in complete darkness, the moon's dawdling flame glints off their cosmos, a sapidity of their solace. They launder their face in the afterglow, even as the rest of the world is coated in their shadow. The nightlife becomes an inadvertent product of their doing, a contrast of lights and darks, an entity birthed from a halo of hospitality.
"Row?" A star only atoms away, still as indefinitely unreachable as the astral gases situated thousands of miles within a vacuum of infinite space, speaks up with a plaintive lilt to its tone. At the sound, I grudgingly push the futile remains of my corpse back to level surface. This conversation is going to mirror the sky, I fear. Alluring and intransigent and something I'll undoubtedly lament hoping for.
It's quite remarkable, actually, the listlessness and stagnation weaved between us, tightening its grip as the stars continuously disalign from its destined placement. Nobody moves, nobody speaks, and the void blanketing the stars prepares its next misfortune upon its sheenless victims. The stars glisten down on us in an almost malevolent light, and I just want something, anything, to happen so I can hear something, anything, beyond the endless, relentless, pattering of my own aching heart.
It's frightening, really, how many radiant spheres watch in bemusement, each one of them spread across the sky as though a heavenly being tipped over a cup of plasmatic glitter; a commodity of cordiality. There's so much—too much, a suffocating quantity of sentiments in a turmoil, a product of my own impending rapacity. Existing out here, as obscured as the night sky is to a Los Angeles resident, only makes the universe press down that much more, because there's nothing. No buildings, no insistent buzzing, no artificial lights blazing like captured stars to shelter me. I could seize up with the fear of looking up at the sky for too long.
Is it so wrong, seriously, to be envious of luminous spheres so detached from actuality? The concept of a feasible, unproblematic reality nipping at its heels as the incessant pleas from morality chant the hymn consisting of a virtuous galaxy roamed by nepotistic and selfless beings alike?
I test the taste of the words fomenting on the tip of my tongue, clashing with the palette of a heart between my teeth. It's over. Whether this is actuality or reality is an inquiry devouring common sense, a symphony beating on bars, its placement sedimenting within the vessels of my blood as it steadily fills my heart to the brim. Its so much—too much, and it's impossible to handle.
