SHORT STORY: THIS MUST BE THE PLACE

Okay, I got this idea one day as I sat in study hall with a pen, an empty notebook, and nothing to do. The monotony got to my and I wished I was somewhere else. So, I started writing from someone else's point of view (who, as it turns out, was somewhere else). Then I started thinking their thoughts, writing down everything they feel and think. Just like any other story where the author isn't the character narrating, but, er, whatever. Another idea here is to make the most insignificant of events (in this case, a girl crossing the street) into the most significant.

It's okay, I guess, for a story written in school without any planning. (By the way, listening to the song by Talking Heads whilst reading might be to your advantage. Maybe.)


From an outsider's point of view, I could be considered a drifter who never drifts. A writer who never writes. A watcher who never watches. A listener who never listens. See, I could very well be those things if I wanted to, but the simple fact is I don't.

Most of my life is taken up by work. What kind of work? Work-work. The kind of work that makes you say the word “work” so many times it doesn't even make sense anymore. That boring “work” which we spend our precious days and night doing, with only a few dollars at the end of the month to show for it. A more appropriate name for work would be “BS.” It's mindless and melts your brain, your individuality. Why would someone pay you for that? We should be paid for reading books and trying to comprehend art films, not BS like work.

But I digress.

Ever heard of Talking Heads? No? Well, you should. They're the greatest band that's ever graced God's green earth. Their songs are silly; their songs are philosophical. Stop and think for a second: How did I get here? How, after all you've gone through in your life, have you ended up reading this flimsy little short story â€" this strand of random thoughts and emotions? You may be rich, you may be poor, but have you ever stopped to wonder if that's really what you should say to define yourself? I don't have much money, but I'm rich (by my definition of the word.)

Maybe this wasn't their intent, but Talking Heads always make me wonder about things. “Once in a Lifetime” made me wonder how I got to where I am today. “Nothing but Flowers” made me wonder what really matters in life. So, whatever I have to say here really boils down to a Talking Heads song. Check them out, I'm telling you. They're that good.

I started writing, unsure of where I'd go next. And even now I have no clue what I'm doing. In all honesty, no one knows what they're doing â€" and by that I mean what they're really doing. What happens in the long run usually happens by mistake.

Do you wonder sometimes where authors writer their work? I guess I do. Most of the time I'm more interested in the author than the writing itself. Maybe that's why I can't write a fictional story even if my life depended on it.

Here I am, writing. My back is against a brick wall. I sit here on the warm grass. It smells of flowers and vegetation. I simply stare into the distance at the cornfields, watching the individual stalks sway like slow dancers in the oft-cool fall breeze. I'm unsure of where I'm going, in this story and in life.

All I want to do is go home. But where is home? The place I live? My apartment â€" my one room apartment â€" isn't much of a home. If home is really where the heart is I'm out of luck. I lost whatever “the heart” is a long time ago.

Okay, maybe you think I'm being melodramatic, but you don't even know my story. Probably, you never will. That's my intent, anyway, though maybe I'll give certain hints throughout this.

No, I'm not like this because of a girl. I've long since given up on love, whatever is left of it in this cracks and jaded world. Of course, this is coming from a naturally pessimistic person, so I do apologize to those overly romantic people out there, whoever you may be. I am the fool sitting against a brick wall, the lonely soul constantly moving (but never moving) in circles, for no real reason. Here I am, and there you are, hovering over these words like a Goliath. Where am I? Where are you? Why?

There's a girl walking along the sidewalk. Not too terribly pretty, but charming in a way. She's smiling even though she's alone, which confuses me. Why is she happy? Is there some story behind this happiness? If there is, I'd very much like to hear it. Maybe I should ask her. What'd she think? Is she the kind of girl who likes things unusual and spontaneous, or is she that kind of girl who's superficial and ignorant with nothing interesting to do or say? It's sad how any women are of the latter category. If you do happen to be female, I hope you aren't one of them and I hope if you are you won't be after reading this.

Two birds are singing two different songs. One is chipper and upbeat, the other sounds like New York construction workers whistling at attractive women. Together, somehow, these two songs blend seamlessly. Things work out like that, you know? Two seemingly opposite things go together perfectly. I wonder if it's the same with people, like a Goth girl and a cheerleader. They'd be best friends and never know it if they never break out of their cliques. It's BS, even worse BS than work.

I'm still here. The girl is long gone. Unless we're somehow destined to meet we'll probably never see each other again. I wonder if she saw me, or thought the thoughts I did. Maybe we both wanted to talk to each other. It's probably better that I don't know, though.

Talking Heads are in my head again. “There's a party in my mind, and I hope it never stops.” Even though I can't hear it with my ears I still somehow hear it. The mind is such a strange and curious thing.

Outside of this song, I hear voices. People working. I hear the voices of people working. Why and for whom I have no idea, but it's work. Work is work. A is A, whatever that means.

I'm kind of regretting not speaking to that girl. My life is bearable, yes, but it's by no means even close to complete or even on the road to being complete. Why haven't I tried to make a difference yet? I guess I'm the type that can't do things for himself. I need to do things for other people. So I need to find someone to live for. But how can I do that? Dammit, I can't try to do something else for someone else if I'm trying to find that someone else.

Is it really selfish to want your happiness before the happiness of others? Maybe, maybe not. I really can't be doing things for someone else if I don't have someone else. Depressing? Not really. C'est la vie.

I still want to go home. Dammit, what or where is home?

Sometimes in bouts of weakness, I wonder about philosophical things. Why (the hell) am I here? This damn world and all it's lonely people, if we're all in this together why are we always alone?

As the days go by, as time changes and flows freely, chaotically spinning in motion. How can a world this beautiful be this empty? Why is it that the worst are made out to be the best and the best made out to be the worst? Are our morals so vain we value only material possessions?

That girl is still in my head. Maybe I should've talked to her, but it's too late now. I want to go home. Home is where I want to be, and as I sit here writing, I guess I'm already there.

Fixed, along with other very, very minor edits! ;D