It was 5am and I walked up to the post box and dropped my movie into the slot. I'm the least OCD person in the world, but this is a vice. I always walk up, even in a blizzard and drop my movie off right after watching. I do not know why. I pass magazines on the floor and dirty clothes, but this I feel needs my attention. I walk slowly looking at the moon, which was there two hours earlier the other night. I stop and look at the dark sky with the slightly lighter bottom. The sun is rising on a new day and yet, I've not closed the book on this one. Sleep, escaped me once again, but this time a nap is to blame.
The day will begin with doors slamming, horns honking and the sounds of the neighbors baby wailing, followed by the dog. Maybe my super and his bellowing Albanian accent will decide to have one of his conversations right outside my door. It's that time when I worry about the day being ruined, by myself. A day with nothing but promise, but one that ends with small regrets. I had a dream last night that I had a picnic in a park with a beautiful woman. A wicker basket, a patterned sheet, cheese, apples and some sandwiches. I used to do things like this when I was young. I used to be romantic when romantic was cool for my age. I miss those times.
This time, I think about the times I would wake early, look and watch someone sleep. Or even in those times alone going for a walk and grab some breakfast. People watching was a thing in my life, but now I don't care. I don't want to overhear the constant complaining of people who most would envy. I want to hear the old person who tells of her grand kids spelling bee or the little child sitting across from his father, smiling, ball cap on crooked, chomping on his pancakes as dad's eyes never leave his face. Nowadays, it's a kid whining about his mother as dad sits, eyes fixated on his blackberry, he checks his watch, then the waitresses ass.
It's that time when my mind is racing a mile a minute, when I could be productive if given the chance. I'm not like others who function in this fortress we sing songs about, from 9-to-5. I'm productive from 3-5pm, from 9-midnight and from 5-7am. I'm useless at noon or during the times most people eat. Why do we live in a world when you have to do your best when others say and not when you actually can? Who wouldn't be inspired to work while watching the sun rise above the trees, the bright light breathing life into you? Who wants to do anything after breakfast, but fall back into bed and cuddle with their love or their children? Who eats lunch in twenty minutes and feels motivated for four or five more hours of work? I need a nap after lunch. Who wants to watch the daylight crash and go home knowing the best part of the day has left.
It doesn't matter if you call me liberal and I call you conservative. We're conformists. We are all slaves to a life we despise. Nine out of ten of us despise our bosses. Five out of ten of us, despise our husbands or wives. I wonder how many people hate their friends or even worse their kids. How many feel their freedom, or last piece of it, was ripped from them by the little bastards? It's that time, when kids wake to the day with the fervor we have long lost. I capture it for an hour, maybe two a day. Just enough to grasp onto it and not let it become my fear or my hatred. I pat an injured girls shoulder and tell her to breath and it's OK. She believes me, but I know it's not OK. The pain is real. It will heal, but who am I to tell someone they are OK, when I'm not OK?
I think about someone who accused me of obsession. Accused me of an incapability to love, to feel, but only to obsess over them. They flattered themselves for months with this lie, while the fog lifted within my brain. It wasn't I was obsessed with them, but them obsessed with the idea of my struggle. My childish desire, because of my connection with children, that I thought I could comfort them and take the pain away. I was wrong, because as adults, many of us welcome the pain. Welcome the abuse. Welcome those who use us and discard us like yesterday's newspapers. We welcome them because we can only handle love, acceptance and happiness for such brief periods of time. Think about every relationship you've ever been in and how that nervousness you had when it started. You had butterflies every day, because you couldn't believe how happy you were Those butterflies soon left the pit of your stomach and soon after that person did too. It's that which we long for. The job, the relationship, the life, where we wake every morning with that feeling in our gut. That fluttering feeling which we once knew. We always put a negative connotation on that feeling and called it nerves, but it's not. It's desire. Desire to have everything be perfect. Perfection is what we strive for, but those butterflies always leave. It's bringing them back time and time again that makes life worth living. It's that time, when I wish to find, just a few more, to flutter around and bring that feeling back..
The day will begin with doors slamming, horns honking and the sounds of the neighbors baby wailing, followed by the dog. Maybe my super and his bellowing Albanian accent will decide to have one of his conversations right outside my door. It's that time when I worry about the day being ruined, by myself. A day with nothing but promise, but one that ends with small regrets. I had a dream last night that I had a picnic in a park with a beautiful woman. A wicker basket, a patterned sheet, cheese, apples and some sandwiches. I used to do things like this when I was young. I used to be romantic when romantic was cool for my age. I miss those times.
This time, I think about the times I would wake early, look and watch someone sleep. Or even in those times alone going for a walk and grab some breakfast. People watching was a thing in my life, but now I don't care. I don't want to overhear the constant complaining of people who most would envy. I want to hear the old person who tells of her grand kids spelling bee or the little child sitting across from his father, smiling, ball cap on crooked, chomping on his pancakes as dad's eyes never leave his face. Nowadays, it's a kid whining about his mother as dad sits, eyes fixated on his blackberry, he checks his watch, then the waitresses ass.
It's that time when my mind is racing a mile a minute, when I could be productive if given the chance. I'm not like others who function in this fortress we sing songs about, from 9-to-5. I'm productive from 3-5pm, from 9-midnight and from 5-7am. I'm useless at noon or during the times most people eat. Why do we live in a world when you have to do your best when others say and not when you actually can? Who wouldn't be inspired to work while watching the sun rise above the trees, the bright light breathing life into you? Who wants to do anything after breakfast, but fall back into bed and cuddle with their love or their children? Who eats lunch in twenty minutes and feels motivated for four or five more hours of work? I need a nap after lunch. Who wants to watch the daylight crash and go home knowing the best part of the day has left.
It doesn't matter if you call me liberal and I call you conservative. We're conformists. We are all slaves to a life we despise. Nine out of ten of us despise our bosses. Five out of ten of us, despise our husbands or wives. I wonder how many people hate their friends or even worse their kids. How many feel their freedom, or last piece of it, was ripped from them by the little bastards? It's that time, when kids wake to the day with the fervor we have long lost. I capture it for an hour, maybe two a day. Just enough to grasp onto it and not let it become my fear or my hatred. I pat an injured girls shoulder and tell her to breath and it's OK. She believes me, but I know it's not OK. The pain is real. It will heal, but who am I to tell someone they are OK, when I'm not OK?
I think about someone who accused me of obsession. Accused me of an incapability to love, to feel, but only to obsess over them. They flattered themselves for months with this lie, while the fog lifted within my brain. It wasn't I was obsessed with them, but them obsessed with the idea of my struggle. My childish desire, because of my connection with children, that I thought I could comfort them and take the pain away. I was wrong, because as adults, many of us welcome the pain. Welcome the abuse. Welcome those who use us and discard us like yesterday's newspapers. We welcome them because we can only handle love, acceptance and happiness for such brief periods of time. Think about every relationship you've ever been in and how that nervousness you had when it started. You had butterflies every day, because you couldn't believe how happy you were Those butterflies soon left the pit of your stomach and soon after that person did too. It's that which we long for. The job, the relationship, the life, where we wake every morning with that feeling in our gut. That fluttering feeling which we once knew. We always put a negative connotation on that feeling and called it nerves, but it's not. It's desire. Desire to have everything be perfect. Perfection is what we strive for, but those butterflies always leave. It's bringing them back time and time again that makes life worth living. It's that time, when I wish to find, just a few more, to flutter around and bring that feeling back..
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