Cynical

Rosa Parks Circle looks different tonight.  It starts when I walk past a young man playing his guitar across the street from the dancing, singing all-too-earnestly in a vain struggle against the blaring pop music.  I don’t think anyone is listening; in fact, I’m not even sure if they can hear him over the din.  And yet I’m positive this is the same young man who was here last week, and the week before, and the week before…  I feel a mixture of condescension and pity.  I think he would probably have a lot more fun playing on his porch at home on Tuesday nights.

And so I find myself spinning around a cynical circle of thinking about what other people are thinking about what other people think.  Suddenly, the human beings with inherently valuable souls who sprawl out on the grass away from the commotion are nothing but scenesters showing off their latest tattoos, smoking to show me that they don’t care what their parents think.  The couple kissing in the middle of the dance floor is screaming that their too-young love is so real it can’t be expressed in words, and the rest of us probably wish we had someone who valued us that much too.  The dancers who have actually taken lessons only keep time to make sure I’m aware my own hobbies will never look this cool.

My lip begins to curl at the whole scene.  It’s too much.  We’re all craving attention too badly, desperately, sadly, embarrassingly.  It shows in our clothing, dancing, posing, and our bored little glances toward the sky when no one is looking, but we sure hope they are.  And every phone out-of-pocket ensures lines will be cast far beyond this present circle, because maybe the consciousness we crave thought they had something better to do tonight.

I see a genuine smile somewhere in the ocean of faces, sparking the revelation that maybe I’m the only one making bored little glances toward the sky when no one is looking.  The youths are enjoying a smoke, the couple is enjoying a kiss, and the dancers are enjoying a dance.  Anything beyond this is not open for my conceited assumption.

I leave, and the young man is still playing his guitar across the street from the city’s largest dance party.  I still don’t know what motivates him, but I don’t want to feel better than him anymore.  And I feel nauseous, because it scares me that I can still see people that way.  It scares me that I’m so desperate to be noticed.  It scares me that my heart is poisonous.