A Day in the Life

I was listening to this song for the umpteenth time and all of a sudden pictures started to flow to the words. I couldn't stop them.. but it was hard to make sense of them. From that moment on, I'd see the pictures again every time I heard the song.

Today, they hit very hard, and I gave it a go. If you don't know the song this might be a little hard to understand, but read it a few times and it'll start to make sense. I warn you, this is just an outpouring of my soul, the likes of which I assure you I've never experienced... so it's a little... odd.

This is sort of stand-alone, so any comments you'd like to make, you can make them in this thread.



~+' A Day in the Life '+~

A swath was cut down the busy London sidewalk. Suits and skirts flowed like a black river around a dry stone. The man in the trenchcoat didn't mind. He couldn't see them. He couldn't see the few who turned up their noses into their obsidian hair, nor could he hear the whispers of "throw them all in jail" falling like rain from full, red lips. The only thing he could see was a bit of newspaper sticking out of a trashcan. Looked familiar. He reached in. The swath instinctively grew a bit wider. He drew it out ... a deep, soft laugh rolled off his thin lips and fell out of his new beard. He remembered that photograph. There he was, on the streetcorner with his ignorant eyes wide with new birth. So young... but that face was his.. there it was, clear as day, in full vibrant colour of black and white. His round eyeglasses pushed up on his hooked nose. They were never like that now. No point, really. He looked at his crisp suit and combed hair. That was me, before I woke up and started dreaming.

He read the story, with interest. It was only a week ago. So long, so short? The police rounded up their usual suspects, the doctors as usual were stunned. The man was well-to-do, the police said, and the driver that hit him was not drunk. The doctors found nothing wrong with the man, no drugs. Seems he simply didn't notice that the lights had changed. The police blamed stress. His wife and kids, the monotony. Happens all the time, they said. Drives a man crazy, they said. Suicide, they said. Read like a dime novel. The usual suspects. Second-hand Prefect for sale, cheap. Half-off pencil sharpeners. Just another day in the life.

The paper slipped from the fingertips that held it, and fell softly back into the pile. Memories and visions burned like a funeral pyre in the death of night. A photograph, like a twisted mirror of the front page, suspended before his eyes. He could see, in that splintered moment after the blaring horn, he could see the man, who was not looking at what was about to begin his life. It was as if he knew.. knew something.. knew something but couldn't feel it. As the glass tore into his cheek and his heart beat its last, their eyes met.

Alarm clock. Shut up. Shut UP! He slammed his palm down on it. Seven AM sharp, as always. Ugh. Just another day in the life. Nah, not today. Five more minutes today.

He rolled out of bed, wash and brush, jockeys, pants, shirt, socks and shoes. He straightened up as he pulled the tie knot into the nape of his neck. Perfect. He clicked his heels with a jaunt and walked downstairs to tea. Just a sip before he looked at the clock. Shit! He grabbed his hat and was out the door. Shit, if only he had known. He got to the station in seconds flat. On the bus now. He smoothed out his coat and trousers and stared at the bald head in front of him. If only he had known. What, the time? Yeah, then I wouldn't have to rush. Not that. What? Not that. The time? Not that. If I had known the time- Not that. ... fine, whatever. The bald head was never a good conversation partner anyway. Maybe the window today. Not that. ... what?

War. That's funny. Killing each other. For land? Bragging rights? Hah, maybe they should play checkers. That's funny. All the worlds leaders sitting down to a game of marbles. Thumb war. That's not a bad idea. No one will have to get hurt for that. The pictures on the television showed people dying. Why? People die from greed and not bullets. The bulletin ended and the small crowd wandered away from the storefront window. Except for one, one in a trenchcoat. Why did they leave? Couldn't they feel it? It pounded in his chest, like a beast screaming, ready to rip him apart and be free... couldn't they FEEL IT?! He hobbled.. no, he couldn't walk any more.. not anymore.. they were still ignoring him. Why couldn't they feel it? No, but he could. He felt it. It hurt so much. They walked away. Going about their lives. Well, that's just it, isn't it? That's really all it is... that's all it is.. it.. all made sense now... it wriggled out of his chest... it was free now... he was free now. He looked inside another window. How did he get here? Oh, right, he was walking. Or hobbling? One or the other. He smiled. There's a piano in there. I fancy a play.

An silent alarm turned on a security camera just in time to see a bearded man with a bloody, bare fist walk calmly through a shattered window and sit properly at the piano.

Oh go away, I have work to do! He rapped his sheen hair with his knuckles. Fuck. He smoothed it back out. Not that. He groaned and walked up the 37 stairs. What an odd number, 37. Who would put 37 stairs in something? ... what? Who cares? As long as they didn't take one out, haha! ... what? He slammed his briefcase down and lit up. He pretended that the smoke filling his lungs was calming him. He heard a familiar voice, self-absorbed and snotty. Ah, normalcy. He looked up and saw a few people commenting at a window. They were all looking outside. That'll get his mind back on things. He peeked over their shoulders. The blue and red lights hit his eyes first, and he looked up to see.. hah! Serves him right. Lousy bum! Looks like broke into a music store. Maybe the police will lock him up for good. Get him off the street. He's struggling! Hah! right in the gut! That'll teach- he didn't do anything. ... What? He was just playing the- No! He broke into a store! He's dangero- he just wanted to play the piano. ... well no, he- Just wanted to play the piano. What's wrong with that? ... now... well now, I don't rightly know... oh... oh my... what is... what is wrong with his eyes? ...my god, what was wrong with that mans eyes...?

A week, and he couldn't shake it. His beard was coming in. He had lost his job, or rather, just didn't care much to go to it. His wife was always talking but she didn't make sense any more. He stood on that spot. There was a little blood left, in the cracks of the cobblestone, but the window was replaced. Shiny and new. Like nothing ever happened. He turned away. He just wanted to play the piano, what was wrong with that? Why did he have to DIE? It was like a knot in his throat, it was stuck there and it was trying so hard to get out. It hurt. He carved a swath through the suits and skirts. He reached into a trash bin. The swath instinctively grew wider. What a world we live in. A man misses a streetlight and gets killed, front page, pictures. An innocent man gets murdered by the police in broad daylight, without resistance, and what does the front page say? Potholes. Fucking potholes. They even took the time to COUNT. What a world. The paper fell out of his fingertips and softly back into the pile. This is how it goes, isn't it? This is how the world turns. Yes. This is just it. He could feel it now.. so close.. everyone walked around him, they couldn't see the blood.. he could.. To them, it was just another day in the life. ... That was it. Now it all made sense. The knot in his throat wrestled free. He looked around. How did he get here? Oh, yeah, he didn't even move. ... didn't he? The sun glinted off of the new glass. He looked through it. He smiled. There's a piano in there.

I fancy a play.