Reconciliation

It isn't that I dislike the morning. The early hours do hold a kind of cheery optimism with which one can imagine endless possibilities and productivity. The air is freshest in the morning, as if the earth churned out something new overnight. No, it isn't that I do not appreciate the precious quality of each sunrise and new day, it is simply the struggle with with I must contend in order to greet this opportunity that I detest. There is a psychological constraint which binds me to my bed and bids me back to sleep. It is the bridge one must cross before reaching the open, green meadow. I know what lies across this rickety, old thing, but my fear pulls me back. I suppose I have the night to blame for this. Darkness provokes imagination and I often find myself wholeheartedly delving into a tomorrow in which I will rise early and conquer all. Yet when the morrow arrives, I fall prey to whimping out and shutting up and lying still and calling quits and dropping dead. You see, waking up and rising from my bed means facing myself in the mirror. I have to conquer myself. Everyday is a kind of reconciliation with the person peering back at me. I must make amends with every feature and flaw and convince them to behave just for today. I remind them to be restricted here, and subtle there, and to never appear forced. I envy the effortless and I question their tactics. Somehow I successfully persuade myself that it will all become easier and the process more refined. Imagine waking refreshed, and bounding out of bed like an angel, the sheets spreading like wings behind you. You see, I overthink this. You see, it is the night time. Tomorrow shall be the same.

A Rose Torn Apart

Romantic mystery, ha. Deep understanding, ha. Intense yearning, ha. You know, romanticism should be guillotined. It is the root of unfair expectation and misguided interpretation. In order to maintain the fantasy, it occupies itself in the eyes and nose, the lips and cheekbones. Yes, it resides in the physical appearance of its human puppets. Smiles and gazes do well to bewitch and capture, yet to penetrate beneath the muscle and dermis is to expose the lie. Lust masquerades as a poem; sweet lines dripping over his tongue, spilling over, languishing softly on his lips. Greed is disguised in the vibrancy of a red rose, the smoothness of expensive chocolate, and in the touch of velvet palms. So often, dreaming girls mistake attention for care, or conversation for understanding. The emotions seem so earnest, the efforts so sincere. Yet these shallow demonstrations are little more than a high-gloss finish on a clogged outhouse. It has been said that however much you polish a turd, it is still a turd. A diamond ring is romanticism's polished turd. A five-star dinner on a terrace in Paris, France is romanticism's polished turd. Rose petals and champagne are, you guessed it, polished turds. Don Juan's turd had the polish which Jack the Ripper's turd lacked. And that, my friends, is a rose torn apart.

Po-Dunk

Apparently, he can afford a state-of-the-art sound system for his beat up Chevy, but he can't afford to wear something besides sweatpants and a wife beater. Apparently, rap is the only music in existence and musicals are for gay people. Apparently, tobacco is the most important food group, and Budweiser should be guzzled like H2O. Apparently, babies are the most hip thing to carry onstage at graduation other than a diploma. Apparently, "please" and "thank you" are no longer considered a part of polite vernacular, and can instead be replaced with baboon-like grunts. Apparently, sluts call sluts sluts. Apparently, gossip is perfectly acceptable as long as you promise to pray for the "sinner". Apparently, it is normal to carefully disinfect a baby's highchair and then proceed to blow cigarette smoke into its face. Apparently, one can tan one's skin to the point of being black and also be racist. Apparently, people pay 50,000 dollars on college so they can booze and mess around in order to acquire jobs which pay enough to allow more boozing and messing around. Apparently, Wal-Mart is the Taj Mahal of America. Welcome to Po-Dunk.

Pulling the Puzzles Apart

Maybe it is something in their aura. A certain part of their appearance breathes something different, whimsical in nature, it seduces the viewer. I knew not to expect it when I was younger, yet now am forced to daily consider why I miss out. I have found no comparison. Its power is unique and binding, even to those for whom it is not displayed. Granted, I still have plenty of time to spend waiting, but already I feel my patience running out. There are reasons as to why I have yet to encounter it. I know it already. I pass by seemingly good opportunities, and I trump up scenarios that would satisfy others. They were both dating other people, and he gave her that look; the kind that encompasses everything. I felt the intensity in his stare, even if it lasted for but a few moments. It contained deep understanding, and yet held a kind of deep yearning to unlock more of her mystery. Blame it on my casual air. I am so good at it. Two independent desires intertwined: to be left alone and to be with someone. I have done well to ignore the happy people around me, reasoning that it isn't all it's cracked up to be. I continue in my own happy way, never asking myself whether or not I would prefer the alternative. Because this is working. When I question whether or not to continue, I continue, because that's what you do. However, that look is what I await. Someday, my vulnerability will make a deserved appearance. Until then, it is always waiting on the surface, beneath a carefully constructed wall of apathy.