Outsider power
I watched the scene through round spectacles. The light shone and entered my pupils like
picturesque petals on a round ball of pollen. The self-aware, self-deprecating hipsters around me resembled clones from scientists trying to regain their credibility. I walked up to a tall, lanky man who mirrored a black grass hopper. I asked “I’m writing an article for the New York Times , what do you think of the scene so far? He looked at me with a false smile and groaned, “Dude I’m so baked...I ca--n’t understand you...talk to me later.” His clothing and personality greatly juxtaposed like a large lion, whose thick mane frayed when stressed. I walked away and stood observing the animals in the vast field, with sharp, glassy eyes. The audience swayed to the beat of the music like stems of grass in the African savannah.
I fidgeted with my pen and made notes on the people surrounding me. One guy stared at me in
between Kendrick Lamar songs and yelled, “You look like a nark!” I flinched and turned around as if
he must be talking to another OCD writer type. “I’m talking to you loser! Did your mom dress you this morning?” I continued through the crowds as if i was a bird so secure of himself that petty remarks wouldn't cause me to lose feathers. His voice eventually faded but I jotted the comments down into the displeased pages of my crippled notebook. The light in the sky looked like the worlds brightest source of heat and power, while the naked, absent minded trees stood as they were. I sat in the grass and hummed the talking heads to myself, “And she was lying in the grass and she could hear the highway breathing and she could see a nearby factory she’s making sure she is not dreaming.” The song felt like a mantra, distracting me from the silly criticism of immature, self declared
vagabonds. The atmosphere was heavily set in like a child’s homemade fort.
