I find myself staring at bone-white walls. I notice a spot, and a peg, just to the riht of the door. A picture went there once, but at this point, I have no idea what it could have been a picture of. My parents, and that loud mouthed real estate agent, are upstairs somewhere, inspecting the finer points of the scrawny house. They won't be 'inspecting' much longer. Trust me, there aren't so many finer points to be examined in the first place, and besides, I can tell that my parents are already sold on it.
I can see only two things in this room. The white patch on the wall, and the raw potential behind the space. Soon, it's gonna be mine. In my head, I'm going over all the things that might happen here some day. I can practically see myself, laying on my stomach, fingers flying across a keyboard, eyes fixed on a screen. I'm writing a song, perhaps, or maybe I'm just surfing the web. Back in the real world, I blink lazily, and inhale deeply, the scent of the old house filling my mind. There's something nostalgic about it, but I'm only 16, and I hardly know what nostalgia is yet.
I walk towards the wall. I slide my fingers across the bumpy surface, noticing cracks in the molding for the first time, I wonder what kind of people lived here. The possibilities are endless, literally. Maybe a girl my age lived here, and maybe I'll marry that girl some day. Maybe it was some guy, exactly like me, listening to the radio way too loud for hours on end. Maybe it was a grown man, alone in his old age, and this was just the guest room. Maybe it was a married couple, and maybe they fought sometimes. The wife would run out of the house, slamming the door, tears streaming down her face, and sneak back in late after drinking for hours. She would sleep in this room, the guest room, her hideaway, for one night. In the morning her husband would appologize. She would admit that she was just being silly. They would kiss under the flickering kitchen light, laughing, and promising to replace the lightbulb, but never getting around to it. Maybe.
I do that a lot. In my mind, anything is possible, and the ideas are intoxicating. It's fun to speculate, and like an author tracing the lives of someone that never existed, I follow these people through their lives, though they're only real in my head. It's like the rectangular patch of slightly-brighter-white wall. Somewhere, the picture that once hung there exists. Somewhere, the owners of this house are conversing amicably with new neighbors.
I live in a hundred different worlds at once, all of them unique. That's alright with me. It's where I want to be.
- Title: Maybe
- Artist: Aint No Elvis
- Description: Life's potential as observed by a 16 year old boy.
- Date: 07/19/2008
- Tags: life