A Rare Watcher Grian From Me

A rare watcher Grian from me

there are moments

it's not quiet, and nobody expects it to be quiet. there's always the sound of burning rubber or shots fired or someone saying something just to fill the humid space.

the soles of shoes are worn down, and nobody knows when they're gonna eat next, but someone dug a deep, deep hole in the sand and when you put your feet in it, it's a little cooler down there.

the radio station shouldn't work out here, but it does anyway, and that's another thing that fills the space. if it's not a song or someone talking, then it's just static, and even then, wasteland cicadas are better than nothing at all.

but there are moments, god there are moments.

like when somebody dies, or when somebody loses their mask and gets another pulled over their wet face. dreadful quiet, eerie quiet, the kind of quiet that settles cold and heavy like nighttime in the desert and won't let up. it hangs around the mailbox, it reminds you to fill the empty space even if you've got nothing to say.

nobody likes quiet because of what it means, yeah, but they all say it's because they're rowdy, which they are. but they're liars, too, 'cause sometimes you can catch 'em listening to nothing, not even the sound of the radio waves, sitting on their car and passing a cigarette back in forth with words few and far between.

that's a different kind of moment, though, the kind of moment you don't try to forget.

but still, those kids, they say they hate the quiet. they say nothing good ever happens when it's quiet.

what they really mean, though, is that they don't like it unless it's on their terms. they don't want the quiet unless there's nobody else around to hear it. unless it feels like the bottom of a hole someone dug in the sand.

some people in my notes literally don’t understand that my chemical romance is the only band in the world. reblog if you understand that my chemical romance is the only band in the world.

divine