odds n' ends
どこでもいいよ
When my mother says don’t be swayed by your friends’ opinions—they don’t understand you, she really means only listen to me—I know what is good for you. We exchange euphemisms we already know the substitutes for to kill time. Sometimes, we have too much time. And profanities produced during periods of inebriation are what we both truly think, but we deny them all the same.
Long walks at midnight are nice. Let’s have an impromptu rendezvous. Only in a small town called Williamstown, Massachusetts can the stars assume this particular configuration. But it is pointless to read too much into the stars; they have long perished eons ago. We only borrow their existences to suffice a topic of conversation, pretending too hard to be romantics. There is probably something profound lurking beyond that trail of smoke rising from our breaths, but for subscribers of instant gratification, patience is never a virtue. And you don’t understand me. You don’t really have to. If performer at the Big Apple Circus was a viable career path, I would opt for the tightrope walker. Point taken, I would probably be a terrible one, but that's the joke. Sardonic humor. Balance is a joke, a concept carelessly brandished by a pretentious Zen practice guide written by some rich white dude. Preach to me about the freedom you artfully weave into your pragmatism instead, and I can pretend to listen.
On rainy days, I prefer gales to wind lulls. Forget about umbrellas—sometimes, human innovation is deprivation. My idealism is most likely larger than your ego is willing to admit, so I only love conditionally. I hate parts of you, but that is really no different from infatuation with the rest of you. Maybe it's because I learned how to swim by first learning how to drown. But if you were to speak about water, I would understand. I return to the sea because I like watching the ebbing and flowing of the tides. They bring gifts sometimes: a message-in-a-bottle that never found its recipient, remnants of someone's promise to someone else, a piece of seaweed, a little salt. I mimic fascination and concordance so the balance would not topple. Especially since fickle waters do not hold vows properly. |
Authora little cynical & tired Archives
July 2019
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