[dw] 18-19 June 2008
living in a plastic world.
That Radiohead song always made her cry. Fake Plastic Trees. The lyrics were simply beautiful, and she flipped through her mp3 player, searching for it. When she found it, she put it on repeat and turned up the volume.
The guitar intro filled her ears, Thom’s sweet voice softly crooning just to her. Did they know how good this song was? Did they truly understand how it made her feel, how it reverberated to the very bottom of her soul?
She feels like the real thing.
She tastes like the real thing.
My fake plastic love.
Was that what her life was? Was her love a fake plastic love? She knew that she hadn’t been the best girlfriend in the world, and that she tended to be quite superficial when it came to some aspects of her life, but she hoped to god that her life wasn’t that sad, dying thing that the song described. She wanted to be real, to really feel, to understand someone else, and to have them understand her.
Maybe that was the most important thing in life, to be understood. She didn’t feel that anyone did that right now, and she had surrounded herself with close friends that were the most distant strangers she could have found. When they looked at her, they didn’t really see her. When they listened to her and laughed with her, it wasn’t really her, it was just some ghost of her soul.
How could she find these true people, these true friends that she needed? She didn’t know that she even could be true to them when she found them. Until she found them, she would listen to the song on repeat, hoping to find some kind of magical truth in it all.
War. Hunh! Yeah! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!
It was playing loud, almost too loud for her. His voice was scratchy and passionate, the brass obnoxiously blasting in her face. Raising her beer, she sang along with the chorus, spilling some of it on the floor as she shook her spindly arm.
She didn’t really get a lot of attention even though she was wearing loud colours, singing along brazenly, and had been drinking like a fish for the past 4 hours by herself at the bar. It probably had to do with her severe face and the cruel turn her mouth took at the edges. She had had a rough life, going from one lousy job to another, living hand to mouth, constantly having to move because she couldn’t always pick up enough to pay the rent.
This last place had been the worst. She’d finally saved up enough cash to get her own place, but then someone had broken in, stole all her money, and taken her crappy little television. There was no way for her to come up with enough money for the rent that was due in 4 days, so she took what she had left, headed to the nearest bar and became a fixture on the far barstool in the corner. No one seemed to mind that she was there as long as she had a drink in front of her the whole time and she left a buck for the bartender, an older man who looked as tired of life and hardship as she felt.
The TV at the bar was playing coverage of a war going on across the world, but she didn’t really care. She couldn’t worry about that war when she had her own to fight.