Most of our relational battles begin
in some small, evil crevice of our cranial flaps; I would like a lobotomy to that sector.
As I grow older, I will see my mind slip away on a youthful pier. Even now, I can create a thought and see it slip away. I can’t lasso it; I’m not even a cowboy.
We forgot how to put down a mobile device and express subtle forms of flirtation.
The eyes are less misconstrued than digital, emotionless messages.
You are as old as you will be,
and as young as you will.
I was standing on the shelves, attempting to reach for the candies designed for adults. I fancied the exterior design. Treats I truly would have popped into my mouth, mulled over, and spat into the walkway near the checkout counter. I begged with chattering hands, reaching in the heavens, speaking to the moment, speaking in magical tongues, attempting to make my arms stretch out like cartoon characters.
The paling fluorescents grab color from the aisle, a stained crème, making me feel sicker, smaller even. A slow wane into pronged hooks holding cards of greeting. Like a busy street in Chicago, one goes to my shoulder, one grinds into back bones. My body stumbling like a plinko chip until I reach the end of my momentum. A neighborhood cashier recognizes the situation but works for minimum wages, so she bats her eyes and organizes the lottery tickets behind the counter. “Where were his parents?”
A rush through the back entrance; doors swing open into an oversized van like a bank robbery gone awry. Van progresses forward but my head was spinning. How ironic is this carnival ride in the parking lot that actually houses our town’s festivities? Knife-like flashes of nausea pummel my stomach paired with an headache rocking from front to back of stage, “where is the fuse box?”
In our mad rush, I reach for the door handle, a universal sign for parents to pull over, even in high speed traffic. I expel what was left of my day on the pavement, the portion that splits between roadway and nature — the gravel that tells two tales. In the fresh air, I spoke to my situation. “All of this for a box of chocolates that I may or may not have enjoyed.” “You know they had coconut in them,” my subtle brain twirling. I didn’t even recognize. I hate coconut.
We judge the world and scurry when it judges mutually.
We are most honest with ourselves when we sleep. We submit to weakness and allow particular truths to speak that we would otherwise guard. We simply enjoy, fear, run, experience and allow our nature to spill.
I’m less to thought
and more to “think”
than you are to think.