(A short reflection inspired by the boy on the bus I overheard one day and never stopped thinking about. I doubt this is what he thinks about on the those long bus rides home, but I would like to think it is. I'm not sure about the ending, but I felt if I had continued I would just keep rambling and not get any point across at all...if there is a point at all. I didn't want to make this into a story as I usually do, as there is no beginning really, or end...I just wanted it to exist for a while.
Mostly listening to Hallelujah, both by Jeff Buckley and Rufus Wainwright.
-Oh, and you may need a dictionary for some of these words. I definitely did.)



The light hit his face and scattered his emotions through the air, like particles colliding and reaching to the edge of the dark recesses. A million fragments that told the air of his perfection, the wrongs of his past.

His haunted face was a recollection of everything they had forgotten. His solemn expression built upon what he didn't know, the questions he couldn't answer. They kept repeating. Skipping on the wavelength. He blinked them away like too many bad dreams.

The recurring thoughts that plagued his mind were bypassed by the heavy connotations of tomfoolery and light air around him. He tossed back his bedraggled aurulent hair, dripping with streaks of sleek blond, and his estranged, but somehow beguiled, cobalt eyes became transfixed on the ghosts that streaked across the panes of glass. They morphed into creatures of unattainable translucence and vivid dreaming horror. He stared through their souls to the other side.

Off and again he was troubled by the atmosphere of his surroundings as he chose not to take part in the merriment and found, once more, that in himself were elements that could not be justified in an earthly manner. Ever since that day. The reflections drew him back to it and how he could never imagine the convalescence could be this strong and unwavering.

His ardent eyes revealed the nightmares he had late at night and now into the day. They were affluent and awakening. The things he had once been concerned about were now washed away as if by blood, except the surface was still rocky and he could hardly walk on the bone skeletons.

He had told them what had occurred but they paid attention only to it as a joke. A play on words that satisfied their lust for the games that play around in boy's minds. But he remembered the acidulent taste. He remembered the questions they had asked; his name, where he lived, all the information that can be regarded as necessary in a state of somewhat emergency. His eyes are fixed on those white halls where he lived or died. But it wasn't the halls that really scared him.

No-that night could've been anything. He composed that the world was spinning twisted, a rotten apple from the core out with parasites and disease. He had never wanted so much to step off.

The night was lyrical, in facets of blinking day that shot like liquid nitrogen into the blood veins encircling his body, wrapping around and squeezing tight like skinny snakes with virulent intentions. He was volant and graceful, feeling the rapture of the night that threw his mind wildly off balance. He compassed the time that it took to travel around the gutters, and see the dirt on the street as the dead skin of God. He was infectious and baneful. Whispering in secret languages to frightened vermin and screaming nothing to the tops of crumbling apartment buildings.

He couldn't remember how the world had finally stopped and let him off the terrible ride. He just remembered waking up to the barrage of questions that ceased his mind and caused him to vomit off the side of the table onto the clean white floor, except that there was nothing. He choked and coughed in a violent fit and those around him struggled to keep him calm, but the questions were stilling coming, filling his mind at an incredulous rate. He tried to focus through the fit. The only tangible words that slipped on to his tongue were words he had forgotten like beauty and zest; like existence and artistry. The combative words that played in his throat and caused his body to heave.

Somehow he had managed to answer through the sticky solvent taste on the roof of his mouth. He had told them the words that they wanted to hear. And then he had been escorted home. He didn't even mind the screaming, the tears. They were just words and emotions. He had slurred through his, wasted them on street lamps and sidewalks.

Three days had passed since then. The night still danced on the panes, faces twisted into ghostly grins and tortured him. He began to close his eyes against them, falling into the seduction of sleep and lethargic dreams that seemed to cease the impact of the hallucinations he had been privy to. He stopped minding the chants of friends that wondered where he was. He was past the games they all still played. He was a ghost, himself, afterall; transclucent and hovering between worlds. He didn't belong in life as he had seen the toll of death, and yet he was resurrected as if by a mighty hook that caught him and pulled him gasping like a great fish onto shore. He wondered if he belonged anywhere, or if there were any like him, drifting in limbo.

The light hit his face and scattered his soul through the air. He couldn't believe the formulas anymore; that the world was made of science. Because he had seen the white halls, and they had defied him and made him insane with thought which had never prevailed before. And all he could do was stare outward as his brain was drilled from inside with puzzles of existentialism. He believed that if he screamed his words would not get past the molasses of particles and wavelengths. His voice would not separate the air that seemed to move in slow motion. He pushed against it each day, fighting with something that he could not see to breathe through the heavy thoughts that drained his body both physically and mentally.

He hungered for the day when it would all stop. The apocalypse. He imagined even then he would still exist, waiting to be claimed by a Heaven or Hell which took bets against him. He often thought about what would happen if that night reoccured, and whether he would be accepted as an invited guest or a throwback to the hounds of Hell.

The worst was on the rides home when the reflections were everywhere. He could only stare ahead, the insects eating his optical nerves would soon tear away the flesh and blood and he would no longer have to see the images that seized his brain so frightfully.