Big and Loud

The boys are big and loud.

They ride barefoot in the back of the jeep because one of them said "Let's Go!"

The amble about in careless, heavy steps, knocking one another and pointing and laughing.

They hit each other to show affection.

He is neither big nor loud.

He is quiet, thoughtful, doesn't enjoy being knocked into.

He marvels at the attention paid to the big and loud boys by the girls he considers "nice."

He wonders why it's ok to hit each other, why that's funny.

He wonders what is wrong with him, and why he's the one whose behavior is suspect. After all, THEY are aggressive, hurtful, cruel. And Big. and Loud.

When he speaks, they all listen. Even the big and loud boys. Sometimes, a note or kind word will follow. From a quiet girl. A pretty one.

Later, he'll see her. With the big and loud boys.

Once, at a movie, a particularly smart girl whom he'd admired was there. With a big and loud boy.

He was alone. And wondered what he'd done to claim her attention.

Was being big and loud all it took?

The big and loud boys made no sense. They still make no sense.

With their light beers and their laughter.

They huddle in groups in button down shirts and slap each others backs and make fart noises and laugh and point at the pretty girls. Women, now.

They pushed and cajoled and blew past the quiet one.

They sometimes listened, often pursued a path he laid out. But after, he wasn't invited for beers.

Beer was gross, anyway, he surmised.

Or maybe he was gross.

Was missing something. Missed a lot of somethings.

Could he make himself big and loud?

A drink or two at an event had this effect: He wasn't as bothered by the big and loud boys. Or men. You wouldn't say he was big. Or loud. But he engaged more freely.

Still, he spent most of his time watching. And really, it felt like often he was watching himself. He saw the image of him standing there, was aware of others who engaged him. But he was about two steps behind and slightly above his physical presence. He watched interactions unfold.

Oh, also, the boys smelled. Either sweaty smells or the smell of too much cologne. Their smells were big and loud as they ambled in big, slow steps and walked into people and didn't care and hit each other and laughed for no apparent reason.

Big and loud.

He was not.

But the boys were big and loud. They turned to men. Big and loud men. And this puzzled him, even as he aged, became a man, gained experience.

The men are big and loud.

He is not.

And never will be.

I used to cry

I used to cry.

I would hear a song or see a movie or watch a video and I'd cry.

I'd cry hard.

That Ed Sheeran song about the A Team would come on and I'd cry in my car and just bawl and lose it.

But, I don't cry anymore.

I'm too hardened by months of sad existence. 

I heard that song -- the one I heard when I was 16 -- "never felt, never know, never shined through in what I've shown..."

And I felt it ... the sensation, the emotion, the calm before the cry.

But, no cry.

No choice but to go on.

To move on. To keep driving. To go to "work." To do what I had to make at least some money today.

Can you be so sad you don't cry?

Can your soul die inside and never come back?

I'm not sure.

I used to want to be touched.  Now, I don't.

I want to be alone and only alone.

All day. Every day.

Forever.

Something is clearly wrong with me. 

The same things keep happening again and again and again.

So, it must be me.

I don't know what it is.

I don't know why it happens.

I know that I don't cry and don't want to be touched and I want to be alone.

I know that I'm watching my life from outside myself.

Do people know I have a dying soul?

Do people sense the rotten dark spot inside me? Is that it?

What if I can convince just one person to not see it... to look past it?

Will my soul regenerate just a bit? Can I get it back?

Every time I think about being completely happy, I think of a single moment when I was 17. 

One, single moment.  That moment was surrounded by other, very joyous moments.  But at that moment, I was completely, totally happy. 

I was innocent, young, ignorant of the perils that awaited me.

And I wonder if, if I'll ever feel that again. Or something close.

Or, if, because I don't cry, I can't be truly happy, either.

If the loss of my soul is permanent...

I used to cry.