Undiagnosed, unmedicated, unhindered. Left to grow in the wrong way.
Henri tapped his pen against the table irritably.
"Paroles." He thought.
Unable to think with the deafening silence of his room, Henri flicked open his laptop and pressed play. iTunes, however, sent mixed messages and conflicting thoughts that crowded his inconsolable conscious. The sudden want for quiet caused him to feel ill-at-ease. Henri opened his window and looked desperately over the banlieues for any kind of help, advice from the ether. A barely audible conversation drifted up to his bedsit, forming a light fog of noise which was permeated slightly by the distant symphony of separate car alarms. Henri closed his laptop again, this was better;
"Musique à ne pas écouter." He thought.
He began to coordinate his thoughts, tapping his pen in a more productive rhythm against the off-key orchestra or Paris' forgotten suburbs. Henri nodded along with the ignored sounds of his neglected housing estate and smiled. Nothing was happening with a tenacity and verve. Henri had yet to write anything, black dots filling his otherwise empty notepad, it seemed apt. He sipped a bottle of Stella Artois and thought more about what he ought to write. Maybe the absence of thought encapsulated best his time here, it certainly epitomised it. Henri smiled, thinking of something to write summed up what he was trying to say perfectly, the search for thought, abstract connotation, the arbitrary quest for ideas and ideology.
"Existence." He thought.
Henri finished his beer and stared down at his once empty notepad, now filled with the écrit de la musique of his own plight for concept. Henri sighed, imbathed himself with petrol and signed it.
"Temps pour une cigarette." He thought
"Paroles." He thought.
Unable to think with the deafening silence of his room, Henri flicked open his laptop and pressed play. iTunes, however, sent mixed messages and conflicting thoughts that crowded his inconsolable conscious. The sudden want for quiet caused him to feel ill-at-ease. Henri opened his window and looked desperately over the banlieues for any kind of help, advice from the ether. A barely audible conversation drifted up to his bedsit, forming a light fog of noise which was permeated slightly by the distant symphony of separate car alarms. Henri closed his laptop again, this was better;
"Musique à ne pas écouter." He thought.
He began to coordinate his thoughts, tapping his pen in a more productive rhythm against the off-key orchestra or Paris' forgotten suburbs. Henri nodded along with the ignored sounds of his neglected housing estate and smiled. Nothing was happening with a tenacity and verve. Henri had yet to write anything, black dots filling his otherwise empty notepad, it seemed apt. He sipped a bottle of Stella Artois and thought more about what he ought to write. Maybe the absence of thought encapsulated best his time here, it certainly epitomised it. Henri smiled, thinking of something to write summed up what he was trying to say perfectly, the search for thought, abstract connotation, the arbitrary quest for ideas and ideology.
"Existence." He thought.
Henri finished his beer and stared down at his once empty notepad, now filled with the écrit de la musique of his own plight for concept. Henri sighed, imbathed himself with petrol and signed it.
"Temps pour une cigarette." He thought
Great read again Jow, your on top form!
ReplyDeleteGive it a jazz soundtrack and some celluloid and call it Goddard. pow.
ReplyDeleteTres bien! Magnifeik :)
ReplyDelete