THE BLOOD TRAVELS
17) As it turned out his so-called freedom was just a role he was playing for
all the people he had left behind. In his lone wandering he was bound to an
image and an idea. Modern rouge, a rebel of sorts. His father had sold pool
and patio furniture and his office was the front seat of his car, imagine
that, strange. They never had a pool or a patio. They lived on the second
floor of a converted hotel His first role, as a boy was the one in school of a
middle class kid. No one knew he grew up in a hotel. The other kids knew he
wasn't rich but they had no idea how poor he was. Never brought any friends
home in the 6 years of high school. That was work, if a friend ask to go to
his house he'd always say lets go on an adventure instead. So instead of
sitting around watching TV at someone's house like most kids they'd storm
parking lots or terrorize department stores. He was a man of great adventure
to his friends; truth was it was just a diversion to not have to bring his
friends to his house. But, you do something long enough it sticks. It was
natural for him after school to go on living his life as he pleased differing
from place to place. He had lots of friends from school he'd left be hind and
none of them left the town. It was easy for him he'd only ever been a hotel
guest. He wasn't cast in his role, no one questioned him, he just occupied
space and time in the way he did. In that sense traveling trough time place to
place for himself as well as the friends he left behind was his occupation you
could say. When he was in some big city alone walking down main street looking
for a certain type of bar. He go in have a drink, light a smoke and sit alone.
It took a special situation for him to make a new friend; he wasn't chatty and
didn't enjoy talk about the weather. To friends he was a force, friendly and smart. He rarely met new people and usually sat alone. He knew back home all the old guys were sitting around thinking of him and his adventures. He knew to them he was at a party or in a hot tub surrounded by women traveling fast in expensive cars. He was a movie star to them. A movie star who had never been in a film, the film was in their minds, in their dreams. A few months would pass he'd drift into a new town sometimes even a different country. He'd lost him self in the role. He didn't know if he kept moving because he still wanted to see it all or because all the people back home needed a champion to carry on so they could live there lives dreaming one day they could be like him. The worst part was he could never ever go back it would kill them, hope would be lost. He lived in exile for the sake of those imprisoned by their lives. But in truth it was the moments he lived for. When
you're out there you're alone but every now and then it hits. The most
beautiful woman arrives on the scene and for a few days or months you share a
bed. If you think you've imagined a beautiful woman, amazing mind, amazing in
bed. Stop, then multiply your vision times ten. Or you come across another mad
fellow and have an adventure involving Ferris wheels and shaved heads only to wake up with an Indian tribe in some desert. Then there were the landscapes, more
addictive than cocaine. You can't just see them you need to be in them.
Canyons and rivers, palaces and churches, town squares and country roads. He
knew his only escape would be to sit down one day and write. Where ever and
whenever he stopped and put pen to paper and wrote a book from all this, that
would be home. The End.
17) As it turned out his so-called freedom was just a role he was playing for
all the people he had left behind. In his lone wandering he was bound to an
image and an idea. Modern rouge, a rebel of sorts. His father had sold pool
and patio furniture and his office was the front seat of his car, imagine
that, strange. They never had a pool or a patio. They lived on the second
floor of a converted hotel His first role, as a boy was the one in school of a
middle class kid. No one knew he grew up in a hotel. The other kids knew he
wasn't rich but they had no idea how poor he was. Never brought any friends
home in the 6 years of high school. That was work, if a friend ask to go to
his house he'd always say lets go on an adventure instead. So instead of
sitting around watching TV at someone's house like most kids they'd storm
parking lots or terrorize department stores. He was a man of great adventure
to his friends; truth was it was just a diversion to not have to bring his
friends to his house. But, you do something long enough it sticks. It was
natural for him after school to go on living his life as he pleased differing
from place to place. He had lots of friends from school he'd left be hind and
none of them left the town. It was easy for him he'd only ever been a hotel
guest. He wasn't cast in his role, no one questioned him, he just occupied
space and time in the way he did. In that sense traveling trough time place to
place for himself as well as the friends he left behind was his occupation you
could say. When he was in some big city alone walking down main street looking
for a certain type of bar. He go in have a drink, light a smoke and sit alone.
It took a special situation for him to make a new friend; he wasn't chatty and
didn't enjoy talk about the weather. To friends he was a force, friendly and smart. He rarely met new people and usually sat alone. He knew back home all the old guys were sitting around thinking of him and his adventures. He knew to them he was at a party or in a hot tub surrounded by women traveling fast in expensive cars. He was a movie star to them. A movie star who had never been in a film, the film was in their minds, in their dreams. A few months would pass he'd drift into a new town sometimes even a different country. He'd lost him self in the role. He didn't know if he kept moving because he still wanted to see it all or because all the people back home needed a champion to carry on so they could live there lives dreaming one day they could be like him. The worst part was he could never ever go back it would kill them, hope would be lost. He lived in exile for the sake of those imprisoned by their lives. But in truth it was the moments he lived for. When
you're out there you're alone but every now and then it hits. The most
beautiful woman arrives on the scene and for a few days or months you share a
bed. If you think you've imagined a beautiful woman, amazing mind, amazing in
bed. Stop, then multiply your vision times ten. Or you come across another mad
fellow and have an adventure involving Ferris wheels and shaved heads only to wake up with an Indian tribe in some desert. Then there were the landscapes, more
addictive than cocaine. You can't just see them you need to be in them.
Canyons and rivers, palaces and churches, town squares and country roads. He
knew his only escape would be to sit down one day and write. Where ever and
whenever he stopped and put pen to paper and wrote a book from all this, that
would be home. The End.
ginary:
Thank you for your set comment!