A day where the sun hangs above you like tree limbs in a forest, walking the corridors blue and green. To the office, to life, to whatever may be inside. What it might, or might not. Watching the clock on a pale wall; watching time. Remember the time you didn’t do that so much? The time your mom made you lunch every day? Where you would sit and play, or take naps and watch shows which were meant to inform, intrigue, and even excite you? Now you scroll through this and that, something to forget momentarily; the Facebook blue giving me the Facebook blues. Wasting everything for nothing, collecting a check being told what to do, with no passion, no hope, NO nothing.
Your mind off somewhere, the beach, nipples erect, goose pimples; cold from the water, warm from the sun. Worrying about a sunburn. The sour smell formaldehyde wafts open nostrils, hairs in between. You come back to life. Nerves shoot pain where you are not sore, where you are not sore is few and far between. Breathing, one breath at a time; breathe in breathe out. Bike lies in pieces; how did I get here?
Just asking questions makes people afraid.
We used to go fishing, get drunk, and talk trash. We used to have real-life fun, and then reality happened. Jobs, cars, careers, and relationships; things just got in the way. Not in a bad way, but in the way.
Aspirin necessity on the tip of your tongue as pain stings the tip of your brain. Tied shoes, zipped jeans, something is too tight. You are too big, too fat, not normal, too unrealistically human, and here. The being itself is the hard part; just being. Why is it, they say. And they told you to get a job, save money, get an education, get married, have kids, but they never told you they would die and not be there, or that you would die someday too, and not be there. That makes it hard for you to be a human being, be a human being, when you aren’t. Death makes you a human with no last name- just human, no being. Coming and going in strange little ways, on a clock. A piece of cake and you thought of pie. Worrying about the idea of worrying, the concept, theory, thought, action. And things happened, as they always do… except without you.
Others just talk. Some try to walk, but they have broken legs. They never practice. They beg and plead for you to see. As flowers hidden beneath weeds; the hours and days we want, we wait, we wish, and hope to forget, in ways. It’s the theatre; this play. Time we’ve spent thinking about time. Thinking about death, breathing and not; fine line. Nothing changes when you sit. The paint stays on the wall, only fading some with the light. The appliances become old and replaced by newer, more efficient, of better quality- they say, make and models. But only as you do, this happens to you. This is mere fact to prove the truth. Time to conclude.
Sort of ashamed at the way we’ve complained. There is nothing wrong with today, only our labels, interpretation, interpolation, assimilation; the way we fucking get on… And off, maybe.
Off to a good start on a bad topic, on a bad thing, just babbling. About things, and about that: Everyone loves biking, beers, and talking about doing- the act. Not acting so much though. They love writing, they love poetry, and they love being completely and utterly fucking unique, just like everyone else. Me too.
There are no problems, only what ones we make. A pleasant day on a pleasant date: July 10, 2014. This is no 9/11, or 12/25, or 06/21, any year. This is right now, today: Heute. The sun is in the sky, the clouds are flying high, and the birds are chirping outside, but only if you believe it. I hit my head really hard last night, and this is the most important day of your life.
Let’s pretend like we’re not pretending.