Bourke St Balcony

             Mehl had always felt somewhat inadequate when in the company of new people. Particularly these new people. A group of friends she’d met only two nights previously. A well-oiled unit of people who seemed to move and speak and think and act as one. She always felt less intelligent, more awkward and somewhat judged when surrounded by people she found fascinating.
 
            The poor girl couldn’t have been further from the truth. It was her self-indulgent delusions of grandeur that had her believing people actually took time out to critique her. Had she been able to take a step outside of her own universe, she’d have seen that these people couldn’t have cared less to judge her, let alone notice her waif presence in their midst.
 
            This unit, these people, spoke of things Mehl had only ever dreamed of discussing. Not that their conversations were particularly earth shattering or revolutionary, it was just the fact that they were discussing something apart from other people. Something Mehl longed for as she grew tiresome of the stable characters and factors in her life.
 
            The passing around of a loosely rolled joint served only to prolong the effects of the previous night’s consumption of copious amounts of amphetamines. She found these people highly quirky yet strangely elegant. To look at them as an outsider, not one of them seemed to fit with another. It appeared more like a random collection of individuals rather that a group of friends. It was like Darlinghurst’s own collection of multicultural action figures.

           
           She flatered in her speech and held back her opinions, which was unlike her. "The courage of the shut mouth, in spite of artillery". Plath’s opening line echoed in her mind as she further distanced herself from these people. She didn’t feel the need to offend, or outsmart any of them, rather just wanted to sit amongst them and let their cod-shit talk stain her, and perhaps overpower the day old sweat she was drenched in.

           
           As more joints were rolled and half-finished bottles of flavoured vodka were passed around, the sun had reached its highest point for the day. Perhaps in tow with nature, or perhaps the natural progression once one’s body is filled and fuelled by external substances, Mehl began to feel as though she too was slowly being welded into this machine as another seemingly insignificant but necessary gadget. Her feelings of inadequacy had not totally left her, though she did feel somewhat at ease with her new found "friends".

         
           For once, it was the people who embraced her, not she who had to first engage them then hope for a reciprocated embrace.

I’m aware that I hae no real sense of structure or form when writing. And I don’t care.