adjectives | reddie

eight - thoughtful

i stared up at my ceiling, tapping to the soft noise of the radio playing as i read the book that laid in front of me. it was a book of old poems compiled together and placed onto old, yellow pages. it was my father's before he passed. my fingers ran down the edge of a page and slowly turned it.

the next poem was one written by a woman named sylvia plath; it was titled "two lovers and a beachcomber by the real sea".

'Cold and final, the imagination
Shuts down its fabled summer house;
Blue views are boarded up; our sweet vacation
Dwindles in the hour-glass.

Thoughts that found a maze of mermaid hair
Tangling in the tide's green fall
Now fold their wings like bats and disappear
Into the attic of the skull.

We are not what we might be; what we are
Outlaws all extrapolation
Beyond the interval of now and here:
White whales are gone with the white ocean.

A lone beachcomber squats among the wrack
Of kaleidoscope shells
Probing fractured Venus with a stick
Under a tent of taunting gulls.

No sea-change decks the sunken shank of bone
That chucks in backtrack of the wave;
Though the mind like an oyster labors on and on,
A grain of sand is all we have.

Water will run by; the actual sun
Will scrupulously rise and set;
No little man lives in the exacting moon
And that is that, is that, is that.'

my eyes scanned every word closely, and my thumb halted its beat. the flashlight i was holding didn't shake in my hand. my other fist clenched the pages tightly, so tightly that i accidentally started to rip about ten pages out. the sound of the tears snapped me out of my thoughts.

i wanted to do something stupid.

my eyes wandered to the black alarm clock that sat on my bedside table. the red digital numbers reflected on the perfectly polished wood. 3:22. my eyes then averted to my window. the screening was cut when my mother found out soda ash was used sometimes to make screening. apparently it could be hazardous; i didn't question. the window was closed, but its latch was unlocked.

i contemplated the pros and cons, but it wasn't like there were that many of either.

"fuck it," i whispered, "i'm already so far gone." the springs of my bed squeaked as i got off, as if it was taking a deep breath after being choked. i shone the flashlight around my room, gathering an old backpack and stuffing items inside. on a final whim, i stuffed the book of poetry into the bag.

slowly, i slid the window open and planted my feet on the roof. my fingers let go of the window frame, causing my whole body to slide down. my body halted as my foot plants itself in the gutter. i crawled and reached down until i felt the column, and i grabbed onto it.

i finally stepped onto the white fence that was on my porch and jumped off it and onto the grass of my front lawn. i felt myself release a breath i did not know i was holding in.

one foot and then the next, i traveled down neibolt street almost calmly. my head was empty, not thinking of anything, just walking; walking somewhere. the lampposts on the sidewalks tinted the area yellow, occasionally flickering out with a buzz. normally, i would've heard my mom's voice saying, "eddie-bear, those lamps attract bugs at night, and then those bugs will give you diseases.", but not that fateful fall night. her voice was long gone. it was dead to me.

if it were one day earlier, i would've turned around and ran home crying after hearing a simple "hey!". if it were a week earlier, i wouldn't have even left the house. yet, i just stood there when i heard the familiar voice.