The Long Road

Speed had always been something of a factor to Paul’s life. Not the drug, indeed much of this fourteen year old’s life was spent surrounded by the presence of questionable pressure from his peers that they span him full circle and, despite a penchant for the odd spirit, the allure of drugs never made their presence known to him. But as he found himself wheeling some sixty miles to the backend of his country tightly clutching his possessions and his Russian blue, he sure as hell felt the downslide of speed.
Entire novels of fictionalised memories of adventures around town with his friends adapted themselves into film as they flicked through his mind over the coming days as he unpacked his belongings. It felt almost cliché that just three years into his puberty he felt the pangs of never having accomplished anything, but sometimes a cliché rings a little too close to home to be falsity. The truth was, he knew his demeanour wasn’t one that attracted many; people came for his friends and they stayed for him, that was the system and for most of high school that system had worked. But he had to adjust to freelance charm; the independent drive-in film, a gigolo without his pimp.

It took two months before he met another soul who didn’t speak with an accent so thick he needed a translator to get past initial greetings. Somewhere between his balance of train-switching to his friends, he bumped into her. Their eyes met and shuddered away like the butt ends of a magnet trying to kiss as they desperately tried to not notice one another too much.
Silence festered between them, or at least it would have were there not a particularly rude set of train carriages scraping up a speed to their right.
Although none of them knew who initiated the discourse, they both found themselves caught up in small talk; their bags slathered with personal ink and badges of their ‘identities’ through an array of bands, and the two struck a chord.
He was awkward but she found something endearing between the stutters and shuffling of his fifty layers of fringe. She made such intentions perfectly clear as they parted ways for their separate trains and he opened his mouth to mutter a thanks but the harsh dryness that came with such incessant talk had robbed him of speech, leaving him to silently pop his lips like a guppy as the train doors clamped shut.



Music being their passion, it didn’t take long for them to take up jamming together, working every idle frustration of their pubescent bodies through the rhythm of whatever beat their limited knowledge could craft. A band was formed; her brother providing the drumbeats, Paul providing the impression of talent where vocals and lyrics were considered, and herself providing the talent. They formed a brutal union of lustful stares and the butchering of their favourite music through any place that would accept them and not insist on a dress code that could curb their creative expression.
And then she disappeared.
A car robbed them of any future that could have bloomed and all that remained of the time they shared was a note taped to a post and the wilting assortment of flowers that occasionally adorned it.
That was when the young boy learned that behind every detail the eye could see told a story. Every spec of dirt was once a tale spun, some of them sad and some of them happy, but all of them a life of their own to have cherished and appreciate.

The real beauty in life is in the imperfections, and through the years Paul went on to live he took it upon himself to show everyone that. Never relish the dark, it only makes works to consume, instead find the beauty within it. No matter how bleak, there is always a twinkling light to take from every shadow and only by embracing that can we truly strengthen in character, and shed the baggage we travel with.