Broken Pieces

You want to know my secret.

You could ask my sister. I remember one night, she had graciously invited me to venture out into the world with her friends. In the car on the way out of town, we were passing a cemetery, and I looked over and said that graveyard is full of people who felt the same way we do tonight. Young. Ready. More in front of us than behind us. And that’s where they are. And it went by quicker than they ever could have imagined. Elisa looks back at me and says great, now you’ve gotten that out of your system, no more of that tonight, okay brother.

But I’m telling you, contemplating mortality puts a brake pedal on time.
It slows the world down just enough that you can feel the immensity of the present.
Life is not a house you build from a blueprint.
It is a stone wall, and plans change as much as the rocks.
And you must strike a balance between imagination and functionality.
A balance. True balance. Or you will never build what we call happiness.

Which is almost exclusively made out of broken pieces.

Half the time

I have finished my review of the reigning philosophy of our time.

I have overviewed the point of view planted in me through my education
into human society.

Gambling.

Nice, easy, didactically ubiquitous, divine chance. Winners and losers.

The happiness offered to us is a heads up half a coin with its opposite for a tail.
The ethos is to endlessly throw it in the air.

The philosophical conclusion, just call it how it lies.

And if you don’t like what you find, flip it again. Like the rest of us. Keep flipping.
Spin your entire life just trying to see what’s on the other side.

We have been given a lifelong guarantee that we will always be happy.
At least half the time.

Write or written

Why are your breasts out at the table? How are you buried four beers deep when we’re all waiting on the second round? This world outside your nest is watching. You can scream how you don’t care, how they should get over it, that you are wild and everybody else will need to invent methods of dealing. Be louder. Shout it. If only belligerently confident words changed anything. But they never have, and they never will, because the other people filling the room, breasts kempt, public drinking, whispering with eyes stepping sideways across your table, they don’t hear you. They hear volume. See sway. But as far as the words you say, they could not care less. You spoke every texture of your character mouth closed, just humming along to “Son of a Preacher Man”. They wrote a short story about you in their heads. You and your fix, like a gatekeeper, calming all those corralled into this boxed in, block shaped bar space, justifying their third drink with your fifth. Sitting them up still and sober-like in their seats seeing you drift. Blushing at their laps, while you massage your tits. It’s not judgment. There is no right or wrong, no tall hill with a sign at the base reading get over it, by all means, this behavior is your right, no matter how scary. Be this person. Be who and what you really are. Just know no one in here is reading your journal, or making excuses for you. They’re all short story writers. And you gave them a gatekeeper. A constant in the experiment of what all is or is not ever going to be appropriate. It’s not bad, or wrong really, it just isn’t the story you set out to write. That’s the only reason we care how our decisions, actions and words affect others, because we left the nest with a particular plot-line in mind. And I, for one, didn’t intend to be a drunk dimensional character in some unpracticed writer’s short fiction. If they take my story home with them with the intention of turning it into one of their own, we will both feel mutually judged by one another. Each of our lives should point a finger at the other. And if this was the story you set out to write, well, I just hope it ended at home.