Interlude: Pipe Dreams

There was a scruffy boy scorned.
There was a scruffy boy no more.

Obsession: How's This For a Fear?(or Salinger Attempt Number 1)

Sia - Breathe Me

I created your wraith starting with the ghost of your eyes. Thick, heavy strokes failed to convey their warmth and conflict. Brows too thick to be yours came next, while sloppy shades smeared the contours of your eyes.  The image lay flat: shamed under the stark flourescence overhead.

Your lips sneered at us both. Your nose was a glaring mess. It reminded me of your past you cannot sunder yourself from; your open secret you cannot conceal. It wasn't until I drew your tangled locks that I gave up.

Veins bulged and sinews tensed as I gripped the darkest B pencil I had tightly - tighter than a room-dwelling bum(or a male nympho if there ever was a male nympho) would his shrivelled  phallus. It bled heavily on the sheet beneath it the way a deflowered wart refused to clot.

It is not that I never drew you in the first place, rather, I ended up not drawing you. I allowed myself to admit this.

Those lop-sided eyes I drew earlier, I gave a withering look brimming with malediction. They simply stared back truthfully and without malice, cutting through my affectations, ripping my dreams - my delusions - into sorry shreds of self-pity.

It would have taken very little to break the pencil tracing harsh lines upon the unfortunate paper, but that would have been too cliche. That would have made miserable me doubly cliched, so I settled for breaking the lead during the course of my frantic, frenzied sketching. My wasted scratching. My meaningless tos and fros, and lefts and rights, and ups and downs.

My breaths became laboured as I continued, the frustration besting my capacity for control until I finally, woefully, and pitifully snapped.

The darkest B pencil I had(its lead now broken) clattered lifelessly before my feet.

Still inflamed and now utterly incensed, I started writing in my jagged and erratic script of how I created your wraith the second the closest notebook(its matte-finish covers gray) I grabbed fell open on my lap. My sentences run on each other, and my modifiers dangle, and my tenses disagree, displaying my incompetence - my incoherence - for anyone to see.

Having been recently told how I drew horribly(and this I know to be true), and then given recompense by being told I probably had some unrefined skill in writing, I found it deeply ironic, and somewhat faintly amusing(in the driest sense), that I just unquestionably, unmistakably, and most assuredly beyond any shadow of doubt, emulated the truth so boldly served.

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The Emo Blogger's Happy Blogging Challenge: Obsession

• ןıuǝ oɟ ɟןıƃɥʇ: Obsession, A Series
• The Orange Wit: Please Don’t Leave Me
• citybuoy: On April and Zac Efron

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Question

What happens when April Fools and Palm Sunday coincide? 

Does it make Palm Sunday a joke? Or does it make April Fools sacred?