Trios (x)

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It's a strange feeling floating against the ceiling. You get a two contradictory messages from your head: you're lying on your back, you're going to fall on your face. Though it's especially delightful floating in public places where you gaze gently down, and watch the masses scramble like ants. Up against the ceiling, you get a strange feeling of loneliness mixed, shaken, with a dash if superiority. It is odd indeed.

The ceiling is very different from the ground, for it is mostly void of obstacles; except for the odd occasional light fixture, or pillar. Apart from all that, it's just a large empty space of beauty and magnificence.

Pretentiousness strives up here. Everyone talks is complete sentences, without contractions, slang nor abbreviations. They all hide behind glorious masks, all too scared to relax, too perplexed, too paranoid of the views of the masses. But the reoccurring trend is that everyone on the ceiling seems completely unaware that the masses really couldn't care.

"Eric, what are you doing?" surprised I clumsily nudged the ceiling, turnning myself around. It was Smuck in his snappy suit, cigar smoldering in his mouth, glass of brandy in his palm.

"I dont know." I sincerely whispered. I looked down at myself, i was in a warm hoody and my most comfortable jeans; had a blunt pencil in one hand and a crumpled note in the other. I looked to my left and there were a few friends off in the corner admiring each others classically formal styles and cuts, playing a bridge and talking 'serious business'.
"Come Eric, come join us for a spot of bridge would you?" they invited
I looked back at Smuck. He shrugged and casually tossed his glass over his shoulder, rolled up his crip white sleaves over his jacket, fished out a small fedorer and wore it at an angle. He spoke chirpily, "There's a subtle difference between being stubborn and making a statement." He span, and joined a gang of loud intoxicated youths. "Come devious children, let us bring havoc to this pomposity of the night" he called out with a hungry toothy grin.

Perhaps it's time to loose some altitude, and come back down to earth; where I were born, where I belong.

You were never made, nor can you afford such exquisit tastes. So why delude yourself! Come back down. you know you don't belong there.

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Scribble, scribble, dot, dot, underline, and the musical tink of fallen wood.