He slides a guitar into his lap and begins to stroke out a rhythm. The music comes like heat lightening. He’s got friends back home but they are all based off the same carbon paper sketch. His roommate is different, nonchalance tempered with a vicious musicality. The mysterious blond being absent most days he’s started to bond with the other residents. All teenagers, all victims of the regime. Like wildflowers dipped in vinegar they are beautiful, experimental, and deranged. He doesn’t fit in quite yet but the nascents always struggle or so he’s been assured. He’s already fallen in love, music is his rebellion, a few lessons and he’s proven himself something of a prodigy. Sometimes she stands in his doorway, alabaster thighs hugged together underneath a plaid skirt. He likes her but he doesn’t know enough to assume reciprocation.
Since he’s been here his style of dress has changed. More necessitous than volitional but it suits him just the same. He’s put on a healthy amount of weight and stopped cutting his hair. Sometimes the mirror startles him, as if a ghost wore his increasingly foreign flesh. There are a lot of mind-altering substances circulating but he’s chosen to stay clean, the circumstances, are themselves illuminating. The freedom to do nothing is itself a burden. Sometimes he catches a face in the queer blue glow of a monitor and panics. The vacant expressions imply a fate more terminal, than that of mindful labor. He still cleans his room though not with a militant precision and he still showers in lukewarm water out of deference to others but he’s learned to speak with less reserve. He hasn’t decided on a mind state yet, if this is happiness or just delirium.
(My dreams always start out very clear and organized but then they start to get disjointed. At this point there was so much happening simultaneously that I’ve been unable to pull out the details in the same linear fashion)