Flick. Flick.

Flick. Flick. He lit his cigarette as the wind cooled the burning frustration from his face. He felt only the soothing burn in his throat. This and the booming bass that beat underneath the shanty roof he rested on. He exhaled his maliciousness into the benevolent skies of the full moon. The lingering stench of perceptions and expectations slowly faded away with the calming breeze. He tossed his cigarette onto the street. Below his dangling legs, a couple laughed wholeheartedly in the masked silence of the night. He smirked for the reemergence of feelings that had once consumed him. He smirked for again he felt free. And yet, he wore that half smile without knowing it was the bottle to his loneliness. He looked out into the cool blue of the hillside neighborhood that surrounded him. Peeked through the trees, the lights of the streetlamps soon consume his vision. His heart tripped into a light pace, his eyes close.

“Hello? Anyone around?” Trees sway and rustle in the darkness, the whistle of the wind chills the atmosphere. “Fuck. Where am I…where am I…where am I?”

His phone vibrates. 7 new texts messages. He tosses his phone over the edge.

Everyone was on seventh heaven while he was high on cloud nine. As night slowly crept into day, the skies fell into the grounds of an unwelcoming reality. Storms of undesired riddles descended on this lover’s thoughts while his heart was lost to the evanescent North Star. Dreams of bliss and fantasy retreated with the stars, as the rays of light revealed himself as the villain to his own misfortune.

Yet, this was the revelation he did not fully comprehend. The truth wasted from the lack of emotional tolerance, the misunderstood truth that would forever doom him to a war for his own heart. “Expectation is the root of all heartache.” William Shakespeare knew this. But this tormented boy, the only thing he knew was that he didn’t know. He didn’t know who she was, and he didn’t know what he needed. If anything, he did know he wanted a size seven shoe, for her size five feet. He longed for his fairytale home, where everything meant something, and something meant faith.

Pull out. Lost in his own thoughts, he forgot where he was.

He looked out into the striking gold of the hillside neighborhood that surrounded him. Peeked through the trees, the reflected light from cars soon blinded his vision. His head throbbed with pain, his eyes close.

And again, he hid from the light of their world in the darkness of his mind, and the secret of his lonely heart was again kept from its fate. The innocence in his self-obsession photographed the admiralty of his embodiment. A pure curiosity reshaped the hierarchy of his self-less universe. The duality of the egocentric system, and of the foreign worlds that orbited, had created a science that harmonized with his dramatic logic. Lost in the black hole of his self-consciousness, the light of his self-awareness was lost without history.

This was the story of some boy who spent all night alone in his head, on the roof of a four-story complex.  And in a sense, he had said more in the silence of those few hours than was ever said in words. He was just another book so easily misinterpreted by our ego. He was another book whose title told the story of our own perfect little lives.  Yet, it’s our perfection that craves for imperfection, and our blatant humanity that needs the light.

Flick. Flick.