I constantly imagine my life as a tragic and hazy indie movie.
One where everything around me is constantly buzzing and moving at a fast pace, and I stand in the middle just a slight bit slower than normal speed and I just breathe.
Everything looks like you're watching me through a fogged mirror, or as if you got a little nervous and fogged up your glasses. Sometimes, I imagine what song would play at the key moments of my life and how the camera would switch to my somber face to a full frame view of the subway platform or the snow covered street. I'd imagine it to be some kind of angry, slow paced Band of Horses song where it starts off really slow, but then it explodes in the chorus. One of those songs where I can progressively get angry during the verses and then step in front of a moving vehicle at the chorus.
I imagine standing at my thinking spot in the dead of the night, just around the corner from my apartment. All you see are my fingers tracing the graffiti covered bricks for a couple of steps, melting the water that froze mid-trickle. Then the camera follows them to my pocket where I pull out my black lighter with a fading sticker on it that reads Bic. Pan to the cigarette already placed between my chapped lips, hands clasped around the front of it so I don't let the wind blow out the flame. This is the part I hate. It makes me want to throw up. I light up the cigarette, inhale, exhale, and cough.
It's a well rehearsed action and I've been in character for a while now.
Next you see a full view of the street, and I'm just a black spec leaning up against a cold brick wall across from a Jehovah's Witness center. I look up at the sky, hoping maybe the man I used to talk to every day might be of help, but it seems as of late that even he is tired of my banter, especially since I haven't visited him a couple of weeks and haven't been returning his calls.
Now you see a shot of me from waist up, far enough where you can barely see where my roots are growing in or that I decided to dye my eyebrows black so I don't have to fill them in. It's also far enough where you can see a faint smirk, but not close enough to realize it's just my facade quitting on me.
I near the end of my cigarette and the camera moves to a shot of the snow, where I drop it in slow motion and step on it with my scuffed knock off leather boot. I've been tripping too much while trying to keep up with the joneses lately. I take a few faux steps towards home. Then it fades to black, as it always does.
