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          A                  "Same Old"                aNAda #37   A
        A                                                            A
     A                      by Phairgirl               04/07/00         A
 A                                                                          A
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	Disconnection and absent-minded dots and lines.  I decorated that
 sheet of empty white nothing, and left it for some feeble-minded pseudo-goth
 asian waitress to hide beneath the half-heaten omelette rubble in the trash
 bags hidden from common view.  I certainly expected nothing more that that,
 since nobody quite understands the infinite ramblings of a loose mind.  It
 was all captured, it all made sense, it is gone forever.  And still yet, it
 meant nothing.  It all means nothing.

	I slid my arm through the limp strap of my purse and dragged my semi-
 lifeless body through the often abused booth, back onto my feet and back out
 where life freely forms new creations, minute by minute.  The life there is
 so stagnant.  Months pass, and yet, the same people exist in the same
 spaces, saying and doing the same things, flashing their witty retorts and
 batting their plastered eyelashes.  Enigmas never cease to be the focus of
 entertainment, while beatniks are here and forgotten.

	There is so much more to learn, so much to explore... and so much
 ignored.  The social butterfly syndrome enraptures those who, on any other
 given day and in any other twilight, would cease to be any sort of bastian
 of glory.  They only come out at night, so it is said.  It's not them that
 come out, it's their followers.  And out they come in boatloads and
 mountainsfull.  While in the meantime, those who don't live for the
 excitement of interaction sit quietly aside, sharing their wisdom only with
 those curious enough to inquire.

	But the seemingly brimming hat of fascination lasts only as long as
 the lights stay dim.  Simple mispronunciations cloud the air of false
 intellectualism, casting a new light of truth on the hubbub beneath it.
 Stories begin to unravel and charm subsides.  And what is left?  Who are
 these people?  And why do their lives depend so much on this garbled attempt
 at excitement in an environment that can support nothing more than blank
 pages?

	And so I fill the white with my drawings of chaos and black and all
 the pessimism that can be mustered.  Patterns emerge, much like those around
 me.  I'm making a statement, but it's easily overshadowed by the pretention
 under which it was created.  There's no need for enigma here, but it grew
 completely on its own.  It can't help but suck the life out of me and
 camoflage me among my surroundings.

	I look once again at that once pristine canvas and leave it, this
 time for good.  I stroll away from the emptiness that overwhelms the room.
 I want to get real, to get down and dirty with honest souls.  And although
 most everyone within would tell me differently, this is not the time, and
 this surely will never be the place.

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 {  (c)2000 aNAda e'zine *                       * aNAda037 * by Phairgirl  }
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