Pebbles The Size Of Boulders

Sometimes, we can be the most cruelest of people.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart, the waking up is the hardest part. You roll outta bed, and down on your knees. And for a moment there, you can hardly breathe. Wondering 'Was he really here? Was he standing in my room?'

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It is Saturday, 6:47pm.
He greets me with open arms. Swinging around his cold bottle of Victoria Bitter, with that same, old, triumphant smile on his face. He jumps around in only excitement he knows; excitement and happiness in which we will never understand from his point of view. His black-coloured, bowl-cut hairstyle bobs up and down like the jellyfish you see, floating by on a sunny afternoon by the local beach. It makes you wonder, sometimes, if his glasses ever fall off from all the joy that contains him. You will never see him without a pair of specs. He hasn't changed one bit from grade prep. Watching him will make you want to smile, to laugh. But do we really know what goes on in his head?

It started with those boys throwing red and white pebbles at him.
I didn't see him for a while afterwards.

It is early Sunday, 12:04am.
He doesn't greet me at all. Looking into his dead, cold eyes... Life had left him completely. He wasn't there, however, he stood like the living dead. I wondered deeply, when he'll return. Tears welled up before his black irises, and smells of burning flesh came from his tea-towel covered arm. His hair bounced no more than a speared and mutilated jellyfish, half-buried in the sand on a hot evening by the local beach. The left lense of his glasses were chipped; I tried hard not to think about what could have possibly happened. He's changed completely from the boy I knew 5 hours and 17 minutes ago; watching him seemed impossible to do. Sympathy will never be able to level, and, we will never know what goes on in his head.

(No song)