“Sitting On a Park Bench…”

Posted on March 5, 2010

Hey Aqualung

Hey Aqualung

Sitting. Silent. Amongst the chaos.


To yourself and others.


Take another. Hoping to invoke. Evoke. Provoke…

Need. Desire. And the need for desire.

You are seeking that which has already been sought and supposedly found.

The Observer sits across from you. Drawing. Writing. Listening.


You’ve removed your wedding band and engagement ring.

You wonder if he noticed. You’ve placed them in your sunglass case.

(your sunglasses are on your face.)

You wonder what he is thinking. Writing.


You wonder if you might live vicariously through him.

You wish to view it all from his perspective.

The Asian next to you smokes and mutters to himself.

He is your age (ish.)

He appears normal otherwise. Other than the abnormal muttering that is.

You cough. You wonder if The Observer looked up. If he noticed.

It was a phlegmy cough…noteworthy enough, you think…

Then again, you notate many things that others do not.

For example, you notate that it was your ego that conjured this superiority-infused thought, not necessarily you.

The Asian is muttering again.

You have an attachment to him.

Not the Asian now… The Observer in the hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses and fingerless gloves, sitting on the bench across from you.

You don’t want him to leave. Your attachment is obviously inappropriate.

Besides, he shows no sign of moving to leave.

Still, your worry surrounding the inevitable persists. It is your way.

The Asian leaves, muttering as he goes.

A crazy homeless man enters from stage left, yelling, which is why you assumed him crazy in the first place.

“Kill ‘em all!” he yells. “Let God sort ‘em out!”

A well-dressed Negro, also crazy and far more frightening, due to his mundane appearance and how easily he’d been able to blend with the normal folk like you, stands and bellows a deep and guttural sound. He smiles wide and high-fives the Belligerent Homeless Man. They stand too close to you now. They smell like soup.

“We should put em’ on a boat,” the Homeless one continues.

“Yeah, a slow boat to China,” the Negro proudly retorts.

They both laugh wildly as they amble off together in one direction or another.

It’s cold on this bench. But they’ll never find you here and so here you shall stay.

You are avoiding life and everyone and everything in it. Your phone goes unanswered. Your emails remain unread. This is in their best interest, you reason. You’ve no interest in spreading your dis-ease.

The Observer is digging through an oversized black backpack.

The Belligerent Homeless Man and The Negro drift by again and you overhear The Homeless one lamenting the fact that the bank is closed.

That’s because you’re crazy, you think.

You don’t think this man could possibly maintain an account at a real bank. Perhaps he refers to a fictitious bank, though…

Such an establishment could be quite useful to these harlequins. They probably have phony bankcards and easy to memorize passwords such as “Junk,” instead of complicated PIN numbers. Everything probably moves extra fast at this fictional bank and the fictitious tellers are all probably real happy and shit.

Then again, on the off chance that The Homeless one was referring to a real-life banking institution, you realize that there’s a legitimate possibility that he owns the whole goddamn place. Crazies always seem to hold power positions.

Fucked up.

The Observer is leaving now. You are sad. As you knew you would be. He floats past you without even a nod in your direction. You watch him as he disappears. He does not look back. He hadn’t noticed you. Not even a little.

Dumb, you think.

He’s dumb. You’re dumb. The pills are dumb. The world is dumb.

(You are numb.)

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