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.