Rantglass - because that's how things are.

Playwright blues.

They rush in before you can even step out of a crowded elevator. Some beat all instances of red lights and continue on their journey along the highway to hell. Others elbow and jostle their way deeper into a queue that never was. A few ghost past a sea of lights and disappear behind a veil void of all emotions, seemingly forever after.

Put on a fake accent, take a few long puffs of a cigarette, and flash a hint of a smile.

Now, it seems that how-are-yous are getting increasingly overrated, and thank-yous even more so. But it is close to impossible to properly explain that feeling that you get, when you are callously sized up, candidly tossed aside and carelessly left behind – the remnants of an imagined existence up and blown away by the winds of perpetual indifference.

I can never tell which is easier: pretending to be a total and confident stranger, or acting unapologetically polite and knowing at keeping up with minute appearances. But frankly, my dear, I am slowly learning to not give a damn.

Details of this entry.Wednesday, September 21, 2011, filed under Musings.
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