When it Rains Down Here

This is a town of beautiful people. And watch how they move like they see no evil, and complement each other like they mean it. It’s an odd place where storefronts are magnolias and atoms seem to bounce a little faster, and there are little stirrer sticks in each cup of overpriced coffee.

I thought that I’d come here to tell stories but I’ve found that, despite my enthusiasm, there are far too many stories to tell, and that I’d be some sort of maniac to even try. It seemed to me that people this doctored, this manicured, this unbelievably manufactured, have stories that don’t come to stimulate the headlines. It’s all fake, fugazi, and fun; it lives and it breaths the break of eyes and not of tongue. It’s like a band who can’t play live, or a dog that won’t bark. It is interesting in that way, but only if you’re willing to subject yourself to it.

They are all sunny though, like it were all that matters, like bad things don’t happen to good people, and sorrow never strikes the heart of the handsome. They are all so blasé and dog-eyed and wonderful – so beautiful, and splendid, and temporary. There is no fear in them, not an immigrant ration, not a false sense of hope.

There are some sorts of parades in town, the kind that last until you want them to end. They march and they sing and they heckle one another for fun, and I watch it all as they try their very best to tell their own stories, not because they know I refuse to, but because they just can’t help themselves. I see how their eyes twinkle at the sign of a glance, or some sort of minor ambition that one might have to ask them about themselves. I see how they plunder their beings for answers, reach down to what they know is true in their gut and excremental cavities. “They see me!” They cheer as they march by, tally marks burned into each one of their pretty wrists.

And it is cloudless, and the weather is cool, and it’s all really too perfect to even bear. And I feel, with everything in me, like a prescription-drug experiment that has gone terribly wrong. Because how can I, the one with all of the schemes, and the experience, and the talent, feel like an isolated grayscale amongst this weird orgasmic rainbow? How can I droop and groan while they spasm and grin? And how are they all so blind to it all? How do they not see what I do?

But when it rains down here all of the beautiful people stay inside. There are no poses or flags or spiked sodas, and nobody wears luchador masks on main street. They just drip quietly in their dreary homes, and they catch angles of themselves that couldn’t ever be real; they creep and slumber in beds that look like coffins and they don’t even care to cry about it – they are real again, but nobody can see it this time.

And when the rain is gone, they wake up, and they wipe away their snot, and their vim, and their vigor. They put on their Sunday best and they greet the early weekend. And I see them again as they load themselves with wonders from which I have indulged myself, each one of them damn proud of their acquired taste for poison. One by one there is howling and mating calls along the night, and they are bizarre and bombastic and purely wonderful to one another. They have given up on ever really being well, and sometimes, I assume, that that is the real secret after all.

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