This is an ongoing project. It will be posted here but is mostly meant for my blog (). Its purpose is to sort the thoughts in my head by putting them down in a work of fiction, hence the title A Pracitice in Metaphor. On my blog each chapter will be accompanied by a picture or a photo, I expect, and any other extras I see fit. Now, on with the show:

A Practice in Metaphor

“Are you happy?”

“Well, I… Yeah, I’m happy.”

“That didn’t sound very assertive. You want to know what that was? That, right there, was downright pathetic.”

“Your professional opinion on the matter means so much to me.”

“It should. They’d feed you to the dogs. I know what you’re looking for in life. You’re not going to find it in people like her. Do you want to go back to the pound? Where every goddamn lost soul winds up in hopes of being picked up by some upbeat shmuck who knows no more about what he wants than the rest of them? Is that what you want? The drooling, mindless drones drifting in and out of life? They can’t figure out what they want. They don’t know. They’ll never know and you’ll never get what you want from them. You want to go back to that pathetic, trivial existence? You won’t find the stability you seek there.”

“She isn’t lost so she can’t be found. You know that. You don’t know what I want, you presumptuous son of a bitch. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you don’t know what you want. But you’re really just confused about what you should be able to have. What you want is people like her. I’m fine on my own. Always have been, always will be.”

“This isn’t about her at all, is it?”

“It never was.”

“Selfish asshole.”

“Good luck with your life.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in luck.”

“I’m not the one who needs it.”

---

A sandy haired young adult sat at the counter munching on a ubiquitous, vulgar, fast-food American burger. His neighbors at the joint consisted of a group of four girls, giddy and giggly, and a shady man sitting in a corner booth, never allowing both eyes to divert attention away from his newspaper. Jack, pushing his hair away from his eyes and chewing thoughtfully, tried to envision this guy ordering his meal with one eye on the waitress and one eye on the paper. Jack chuckled at the thought.

The girls’ laughter and jubilant joking made Jack feel more alienated than he all ready knew he was. He swallowed the hunk of meat left in his mouth and set down his burger. A moment before he had felt like a starved bear that finally got a hold of a large bass. Now his appetite was lost and Jack cursed at the world under his breath. It happened every now and again. The full conception of his isolation would sneak in and light his mind ablaze. Feeling dead, empty, useless—like a burning pile of autumn leaves. He’d stop and meditate his existence. He never wanted to do anything in these instances except think. Often times he wouldn’t allow such feelings to consume him. So in an attempt to brush off the nagging notions plaguing his mind he decided to depart.

Standing up, he took a deep breath, collecting himself before turning to leave. As he started walking towards the door Jack looked to his left and caught the eyes of one of the girls. Within an instant Jack noticed the girl’s fire-red hair, hazel eyes, fair complexion, and her tight blue jeans topped off with a pink-purple shirt bearing a large animated butterfly across the breast. Fitting, Jack thought. Hope she manages to find her own metamorphosis. Jack wanted to hate her, but her eyes shot back a look matching Jack’s aggressive, contemptuous glare. The moment ended; Jack diverted his eyes and shoved past the door.

Jack jogged down the steps to the subway and didn’t slow. He kept a steady pace, leaped over the turnstile, and slid through closing train doors before any authority figure could call him on his illegal action. He took a seat and relaxed as the train’s typical chugga-chugga across the tracks started up. Jack wondered, once more, how he got to where he was. Why was he so antsy in during moments without movement? Being static unnerved him and by constantly moving, going from one place to another regardless of what the places actually were, he felt a sense of purpose. Then he wondered why she was standing there.

The girl with the fire-red hair had just come in from another cart and stood gripping a pole to keep herself steady. She stared at the dark glass and her reflection stared back.

“Nice night,” Jack said. The girl turned, smiled, nodded.

“Where you headed?” she asked.

“Nowhere special.”

“Sounds nice.”

chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga

“You?”

“The same. Might see you there. Maybe we can get some coffee.”

“Isn’t that a bit cliché?”

“Would you prefer purchasing various narcotics, getting high, losing sense of reality, getting hot and bothered, and waking up with little to no recognition of what happened the night before beyond the fact that it was the best night you’ve had in a long time?”

chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga

“Point.”

The train stopped and their eyes met once more. Hazel to brown. The doors of the train opened and closed; the eyes stayed locked. The train started up again and fire-red opened the door to the next cart.

“Name?”

“Angela.”

“Isn’t that cliché?”

“Would you prefer Estella?”

The door closed behind her; she disappeared from view.

chugga-chugga, chugga-chugga

“Point.”