END OF A SOFT BOY, A TWO-PART DRAMATIC CONCLUSION (and possible TV movie): PART 1
It wasn’t pleasant. I mean, it wasn’t particularly anything I suppose. Therein lied (read my lips; not lies) my absolute confusion. If IT wasn’t particularly anything, it quite frankly begged the question of what was ME. Suddenly my own entrails, my grimy appendages, were not nearly as salient as I had and still might now imagine them. My mouth which had so often laid bare as to consume reflexively snapped shut upon the first notes of Boston’s “More Than a Feeling.” The void which had originally laid behind the veil of my teeth was suddenly transferred to myself, absolutely. My throbbing eyes jerked against the darkness which swiftly pollocked my home. And then it was, or still is, done.
How does one appreciate nature? How does one lay their legs in the dirt and relax? How does one return to footing as a tyrant?
There is no resolution. And there is no problem. They lived against nature, so they could not feasibly return to it. And so they ceased in fury and was killed in whole. IT was violent, but IT was not industrial; there was no purpose, only singular movement.
Sitting flaccidly along a brick wall and observing nature. Force yourself, force yourself, force yourself. There is nothing there. No impetus of satisfaction.
Upkeeping a house is mundane. But without it there would be no passage of time, no reminder of fluidity. Shutting windows to open them again. Day and day comes and then not. There is decay, one of terrible tragedy. But they denied themselves the horror of banality.
And so then they ruptured.