Repetition is the spice of strife. One’s persistent longing does not reveal any innate capacity to be loved. Intimacy may bespeak immediacy? But then commands a hope for the possibility of some small degree of lingering sharable empathy. One cannot truly be in love until they themselves are willing to step aside. Emptiness in its lack does not constitute a human existence. To expect one’s self to be known despite the high walls that are erected around them is to maintain a fiction of geniality of false security of an irresolute presence.
Cold. Nice boots and new jeans. Bad hair. “Just being me!“, she might have said to herself as she strode up to the counter. Silently passing under the gaze of older men. The art hanging about the walls bespeaking black rubber worms ‘cacked’ forth from abundantly large vulcanized assholes. A quiet little student of her cell phone’s daily musings sitting int he armor of her cheap floor length winter coat. Alone. She sits at the table just ahead. A semblance in a way from the scribbles on the glass facing outside. Individual offerings in wax pencil barely legible yet very human by design. What have I to offer life from my own play set of bankrupt toys! Save perhaps the ability to avoid danger? To avoid the living embodiment of the existence of life. Though we all exist within the jaws of a trap slowly sprung. The expressions of joy signifying arrival by errant ‘femmes‘ so vulnerable and in total emotional disarmament.
If any seek discovery in these words then they are mistaken. Weight distributed on two legs. The exclusively internal conversation without the blank page a room for of youthful strangers. The sustenance by the fiction that wisdom comes naturally with impressionable youth who are relieved from the pressures of life by leisure. Life is a chess game for some of those who consider themselves outsiders. The occasional expected ritual involving consumption of the sacrificial offering of flesh. “And my reaction was!“, she did not say, mumbling instead a colloquial “like“. The residue of the ever mounting atrophy of spoken English vocabulary further despoiled. “As I always say . . .“, inferring an inability to think differently over an indeterminate period of time. “Huh?“, an exclamation rather than a question. A grunt rather than an intelligent groan.
The reality for those being distant from all and not just from their own kind. The currently acceptable spark of individuality coming in well-tatooed meat. Armed with an eight pack of toilet tissues under the arm, it fully and firmly secured. Take creatures, white Masai and just about as aloof. Sensitivity within sensual areas more simply an itch to be scratched. Symbolic leisure wear well within the set of faux riding boots loudly proclaiming a desired caste to be judged by. Does one accept this silent declaration at face value? The stars from the heavens above are merely bright reflections upon the white enamel of the coffee cup of track lighting. A thick wad of paper snatched ceremoniously from the pocket assuming respect in the repeatable transactional ritual of coming out.