This blog is a compilation of a zillion old blogs from my previous, now defunct blog. I thought it would be nice to revive them here, as I wrote some things I am very proud of. I had only taken them down because... well... I just like to cleanse and purge from time to time. So here they are again, ready to be seen with a renewed eye.
XOXO
M.M.
December 10, 2009
Cold.
These skimpy trees can't even seem to cling onto the flesh that the snow provided for them. It just falls off of them like ashes and dust. They're naked now, and that's just the way it is. The shadows are so long, too. Skinny, and stretched, and darker than ever. Not even a full moon the size of Texas could lighten their black stains on the Earth. They are vertical spills of ink, dripping off of everything. It's messy. Infectious. This bitter wind is a smack in the face. It's impossible to ignore it. It's here, and its presence is most certainly known. My bones ache now. I can hear them creaking with every step. It's like walking on brittle hay, or the floor of a towering, ancient forest. That "Crackle Crick Snap" that these joints muster up. And somehow, the season brings gravity. I feel heavy now. But the most alive I've been in ages. Confrontational and brave. Vibrant. These days are clearer and brighter, and they let you know just how small and insignificant you are, and how every time you inhale you breathe in this amazing place and time, and nothing else matters at all! This is you, here, with me, and us, in this place, on this world, and the swirling of life around us flows through everything, connected, and so very, very, amazingly, dangerously, fragile-ly, unreally, real...
Shy away from what's in front of you for once. Don't worry about what's behind you, either. Simply look up. Look Down. Then smile at it all. This is it. Make it count for something.
December 4, 2009
Coast.
In 37 days I'll have been on this Earth for 36 years. Some of them have been incredibly long, and some of them so short and indistinguishable that I don't even remember them. Each of these years blends more and more into the last, in some sort of gradient that I've yet to understand. It's not going from dark to light, nor light to dark, but more of a constant shade of murky grey. Like when you imagine yourself lost at sea, with nothing around you but an ocean of brackish water which has no bottom and no end in sight. It just stretches on forever into the distance, endlessly... There are very few peaks and valleys to the tide, just a steady stream of meandering mediocrity. Nobody cares, particularly me. This is going nowhere...
November 30, 2009
Fade.
Today was a day of hauntings. The air so familiar, and ghosts at every turn. Passing by all the places I used to live, with images of who I used to be. Like all of these past lives converged into a moment of sadness and mourning of what once was, and what will never be again. Those days feel like dreams of someone else's life, not mine. But I know that I was there. I wonder if I could think of the past as being nothing more than a dream? If I could, would it be easier to let go of? Would it fade into the background of my mind, and become distorted and fuzzy like all of my other dreams? Maybe then it wouldn't feel so hard to be where I am right now. Maybe then I could go about my life as it is today, without ever feeling the tug of nostalgia everytime I pass by someplace where I once was already. Maybe then I could look forward without ever feeling this pang in my chest. This sick longing to hold onto someone who no longer exists...
November 29, 2009
Still.
You can make all the right moves. Change this and that. Look at everything and everyone around you in a different way. Step out of yourself. Take a deep breath. Enjoy the little things. Lose control for once. And like it. Be certain that things are different now. That you've let go of the old baggage. See things from a new perspective. Cleared the cobwebs from your mind. These are all things that needed to be done. And you did them. And yet all that you thought you needed to escape from is still there. Nestled and safe. Unrelenting and true. Faithful and everlasting. And this is maybe more than you ever knew. But you're ok with it. It's good. And brings a smile to your lips. Often.
September 26, 2009
Again.
The stranger has appeared once again. Have you ever been walking from one room to another and seen a shadow of someone out of the corner of your eye, only to look back and see nobody there? Well, that's the stranger alright. No matter how hard you try to shake that eerie sensation, it's still there, lingering just beyond the distance. There is something so important about knowing that he's there, even when he isn't. I could try to explain what this means, but it just can't be said with words. It's a feeling, and a smell, and a specific chill that creeps its way from the tip of my toes to the hairs on my head, leaving goosebumps behind like a trail of breadcrumbs. I mean, how can anyone explain that exactly? It just can't be done.
It's dark so early now. At this point I never even bother to draw the curtains open as I've become accustomed to the darkness, and I like it. I find comfort in it. It's as though I'm a spy, peering out at the goings on of the world, yet nobody can ever peer back at me. In fact, tonight has mystery written all over it. It's the first evening that really feels like fall. I don't know how it happens, but a switch has been flipped, and even the air smells different now. The street lamps have a foggy glow about them from the day's early rain. Even the grass is still moist, and the crickets outside my window are deafening. It's time now.
I close my eyes, just for a brief moment, and then the stranger appears again. I can feel the whites of his eyes piercing through me. The shivers are there again. Butterflies are turning cartwheels in my guts. My posture has straightened and my lips are pursed. My brow is no longer furrowed and I'm smiling at everything. My voice is lilted and soft. He cannot hide from me this time, in spite of his best efforts. His presence is no delusion.... he knows it, and I know it. This change in the air outside brings him ever closer to me. The mystery of the shadowy man.
The next time he casts his silhouette upon my bedroom wall, I shall trace the shape of him there. His masculine features somehow not ever seeming out of place against my pink, floral wallpaper. I want to peel away that place where he was, leaving concrete evidence that he was there. You would plainly see the curve of his ample nose, and the sweet curl of his kind fingers, then you could never question it again. The stranger is real, I assure you.
I shall take that piece of him, encapsulated on the rosy paper, and fold it a million times over itself till it was just big enough to tuck into my shoe. I want him to go where I go. I want him to feel the earth under my feet in the same way that I do. To experience these things with me. Nobody needs to know he's there, in my shoe, besides me. He is a stranger after all, and a stranger he shall remain. It's easier now anyways, to keep this mystery alive. The fog has risen and autumn has come. Soon everyone's secrets will be buried amongst the crimson leaves, and enshrouded within the silvery mist- my own most assuredly included.... The stranger is here again.... shhhh....
September 21, 2009
Found.
The lamp in my room is dim - barely a flicker above candlelight. A much anticipated evening rain quietly taps on the glass, and thumps gingerly on the roof above me. This town has been thirsty for so long that you'd think I lived in the desert. For once my neighbor's chatter is being drowned out by the cars on the street outside, gliding through the water, breaking it, smashing it, pushing it aside as though it were worthless.
I close my eyes for a moment as I listen to the swishing sounds. I imagine that I am at the ocean, on the shore, with my toes buried in the sand. The sun is seeping into my skin, tingling it as it browns. The fan blowing in the window is instead a breeze that each wave whips up as the air shimmies across the tide. And the smell of the rain and the dirty concrete is suddenly infused with scents of warm salt and buttery, coconut suntan lotion. My eyes open and once again I witness the lamp, thinking to myself how its luster is nowhere near that of the sun.
Between the crashes of waves, well, the pauses between one passing car to the next, I hear children again, and muffled television sets. My umbrella is only steps away in the closet, and I toy with the idea of walking out to the yard with it, barefoot, into the sopping, wet grass. I imagine that while the grass is green and soft on my feet, I will not get lost in it as I would if I were in the sea. There would be no need for beacons to warn me of sharp rocks ahead, nor any muscled, oily lifeguards in red trunks to save me should I go under.
I close my eyes again and think to myself. If I wanted to, right now, I could go down the steps, out of the house, and into this beautiful rain. I could tempt the gods by standing under the massive tree with my umbrella in hand - its black nylon dome resembling arched, rubbery bat wings fluttering overhead, with a silvery talon on one end and a prosthetic claw on the other. Strike me gods, if you must! I am not afraid of you!
The tree and its canopy of brown arms and emerald fingers offer shelter, too, not unlike the umbrella itself. Half of me drenched ankle deep, and the other half safe and dry. I could stand there, in the soaking darkness, listening to the machines beating relentlessly against the glistening asphalt, my eyes faraway in another time and place. Nuzzling my body deep into the crevices of the tree trunk, trusting it and allowing it to embrace me.
I must put down the umbrella, for half of this is not good enough. I want to feel the cool water dripping down my face. I need to let my hair slick down my forehead and into my eyes, and have my now translucent dress cling desperately to my body. I want to admire the little boats of leaves which are swimming downstream in the gutters, twisting and racing with each other to the finish, where ultimately they will wash into the city's underground labyrinth of tunnels and tubes till they end up where I so desperately am trying to be - in the ocean, but not lost... rather, found, where they, and I, were always meant to be...
My eyes are open again.
September 15, 2009
Chance.
We all cross paths in generally random ways. Maybe I met you through a friend, or at a bar, or we used to work together someplace. Maybe I saw your profile on the internet and sent you a message or vice versa. But it is so rare to meet someone truly, absolutely by chance. Someone whom you'd have never, ever, ever, ever crossed paths with otherwise. These are the meetings that seem to be most important to me. The people I meet this way are always the closest people in my life, and I don't think that is a coincidence. It's like the planets aligned just right and magic happened. Kismet. I saw you and took a chance, because I knew that if I didn't I would regret it. I would've let an opportunity pass me by, and what if that opportunity was the greatest thing that could've ever happened to me and I missed it?! I just can't let that happen. It's the knowing what I know now that is hardest. I brought you into my life and now I have to accept all that has transpired and will continue to transpire, even if it isn't easy. I can only hope that chance works in my favor again. It only seems right to me that this opportunity ever presented itself in the first place, and I am not willing to let it go. Not yet, anyways...
September 11, 2009
Soon.
These late afternoons bring pools of shadows at every turn. I can envision myself dipping my toe into them, rippling little circles through them, disrupting their darkness. I want to slowly, gently, sit down on the concrete curb where they cross from the sidewalk and onto the asphalt, then slip my shoes off and begin dangling my feet over the edge and into the black water, splashing the shadow's inky murk all around my ankles and calves. The sun crossing my cheek at a 90 degree angle, highlighting the bridge of my nose and the girth of my bottom lip. I squint and I smirk, knowingly, at the trees and the ants and the birds and the squirrels, for I know completely that they and they alone understand.
These days are rapidly growing shorter and shorter and soon the leaves will be in technicolor once again. Before I know it I'll be buttoning up my grey cardigan in order to mimic the chilly overcast skies; my own little knitted camoflage. I can already hear the crinkles and crunches of the brittle foliage under my feet, and the anticipation is nearly too much for me to bare. I can smell the sweet flesh of a stranger's neck, and feel the soft bristle of their wooly coat against my skin. The stranger is out there... somewhere... wondering where I am and why I haven't found them yet, just as I am wondering why they haven't found me. Soon, my friend, soon... with the turn of seasons comes unbridled opportunity for chance meetings, and I will be watching, waiting, to see you come around the corner. This is what I think about when I dangle my feet in the shadows of these last few warm days... Soon. Soon. Soon.
September 2, 2009
Strangers
We cross paths in a familiar hallway. The velocity of my flesh and bones stirs up a breeze which brushes gently against you, as yours does to me. I can smell your Marlboros and sickening fabric softener, both of which make me wince. Our eyes may have met, or perhaps they did not. Was I looking cowardly down at my shoes, or pretending to notice something out the window? Just for a brief moment, in the spiritual plane, our colored vibrations may have combined to form a pastel shade of violet or green, just beyond our conscious view. Or maybe our shadows discreetly shook hands behind our backs? Who knows. We are strangers after all.
We interact with each other in line at the grocery store as I put the divider on the belt after I'm through. I don't have to extend myself in such a way, but I do so as a simple courtesy to you. You walk out of the building in front of me and hold the door for me. I say "Thank you." Now we're even. Manners are a saving grace for us strangers, as they are the only way we can disguise the vile, despicable creatures we really are underneath the masks. Hundreds of thousands of millions of billions of active minds all over the Earth, plotting and scheming and cursing and crying. In complete silence there is still a deafening ruckus going on inside all of our skulls. Strangers, indeed.
Some of us hate silently under our breath, and some of us pull out automatic weapons at the mall the next town over. It's all relative, really. Some of us care only about ourselves, and others care only about justice for all who inhabit this realm of existence. Piety and dignity, desperation and greed. Maintaining some semblance of order. Yin and Yang. Seeking comfort in each other, yet the turmoil of trying to communicate with a mind that is not your own is never-ending and completely, unabashedly futile. Expressing your views with the absolute determination to win an unwinable battle. You vs. Me. Me vs. Them. You are them, and even in the most intimate of circumstances, we shall always be strangers.
August 29, 2009
You.
There in the darkness, I see you. I share your translucent glow. I feel it. I cherish it. Just knowing that you are there in the shadows, watching over me, fills me with a satisfaction and joy that words cannot describe. When I glance into the night sky and I see but one glimmer in the brackish, infinite universe, it is you who comes to mind. I nibble at your rainbows and devour your wisdom. All at once a stranger and a confidant and an unexpected love. Sometimes I have to fight my thoughts as I know I shouldn't revel in you, but I just can't let you go. After all, if you weren't here, in my midnight, in my flesh's memory, it would be so much easier... But you are. I know you want to be here, too. This compulsion of secrets and unmitigated guilt and beauty. These words that only we know about. This "us." You and me. We. Put your hand in your pocket every time you think of me. It is there that I am, and there that I shall always be. Warm and cozy in your imagination. Close to you. With you. Hidden and content. Sorrowful and lusting. Ever present. Unending and faithful. Yours.
P.S. Je devine peut-être dans la prochaine vie vous serez véritablement le mien...
Trees: revisited
It may sound trite or cliche, but I admire the trees more than just about anything. They seem so incredibly strong, yet they are just as delicate as any of us. The sounds they make are as beautiful as their appearance, if not more-so. If you listen close enough and close your eyes, their rustling leaves sound just like the ocean. There is this massive tree in my front yard that seems to extend to the heavens. Today I looked up at how tall it is. At how far it reaches in each direction. Up. To the side. Close. Far. And then, I looked down. I don't look down at trees I guess; it just never occurs to me, really. But I looked down on it today, and admired how its roots rumpled just above the earth. Rumpled lumps bellowing out a few inches away from the heavy concrete barriers of the sidewalk. And then suddenly... as if awakened after a long slumber, my eyes opened so wide, like seeing for the very first time. I imagined for a moment, taking away the sidewalk, and the dirt, and the layers upon layers of history of this tree, and like an xray I envisioned all of the life that lies beneath the surface unnoticed or un-thought of by anyone. How if the Earth around it was a great body of clear, supple water, what that reflection of the tree's naked branches would look like- a mirror image. But this mirror image isn't that of a reflection at all. It is literally buried underneath my feet... this fantastic labyrinth of roots, as big if not bigger then the tree itself... tangling up and strangling the soil, as if they were little snakes preying on the bits of water that trickle down giving them life. Are the roots jealous that they are just as magnificent and beautiful and immense as their twin above? Angry that they don't get any recognition at all for its splendor? They just live in the shadows and the darkness, doing their duty to be certain that life extends another day. They don't get to feel the tickle of the squirrels scurrying across their branches. They don't get to embrace any nests of sweet, fresh birds in their arms. They don't get to experience what it's like to have any color grow out of them. They just lie there...always brown...reaching deeper and deeper into the Earth...reaching...without anybody at all paying them any attention, or appreciating them, or acknowledging that they even exist.
There is this alternate universe underneath us, and that is pretty damned amazing...
August 26, 2009
Wind
The smell of the wind is what means the most to me. You know, that special wind that kicks up when there's electricity in the air on a warm summer night. It's almost as though a thunderstorm could happen at any moment, but it never does, so all of this power is trapped within the atmosphere, and as you inhale the static-charged air, you can feel it surging through you. It's like an orgasm just welling up inside of you, but somehow it feels so incredibly good that you never quite want to let it go. You hold on to it, grasping at it, letting it fill you up with this intense, glorious sensation that you know will be lost should you let it take over you. Yeah, that's the kind of wind I mean.
This wind blows the leaves around, and shuttles the garbage on the streets from one gutter to another, and it makes the blades of grass happily flutter to and fro. It blows your hair into your eyes, and it most naughtily lifts up your skirt as it molests your warm skin with its sneaky little tentacles. It's just wind after all, so you'd never once think it had a hidden agenda, but I assure you that it most certainly does. It seduces you with its delightful smile, luring you like a siren on the shore. This wind that brings promise and change and guides you back to the days that you look most fondly upon more than anything. When you were young and fresh and lived so carefree. Everything was new to your fledgling eyes, so the world was rose tinted and endless. There was no set road in front of you, and the road that is behind you simply vanishes off into the distance, because when that wind is around, no pain or humility matters much. It's all about what could be, and not at all about was has already been.
The wind means more to me now than maybe it did in the past. Back then it was all about change and freedom and adventure. Nowadays, as I am much older and perhaps jaded and bitter, when that wind rears its lovely head, it quickly brings me back to who I was before all of the years piled on and smothered me. I am stripped of the baggage and the poor choices and lousy boyfriends. The crummy apartments and broken down cars, and terrible jobs that I hated with the fury of a thousand fire-breathing dragons. The despair of adulthood that bogs you down and makes you feel like you will never be anything that you dreamt about because well, it's simply too late now, right? But that wind... that sneaky, mischievous wind, injects you with hope once again the instant it crosses your path.
"All is not lost," it whispers. "I am still here, just as I've always been. It is not I that have lost you; it is you that have lost I, but I have been here all along. Just step out of yourself every now and then and you will once again be filled with joy and hope and my neverending promise to remind you of who you have always been beneath the layers and layers of burdens and responsibility."
This wind, and only this one in particular, is the one that gently nudges us through the chill of winter and the brutal cold within ourselves. It is indeed the most important wind of all. I keep thinking about how these days are sadly numbered and truly, it's now or never. I am breathing in all that the warm, electric air has to offer. Storing it up within myself so that I may lean on it when I need it most. When I'm bundled up from head to toe with sadness and mittens and scarves and melancholy, I'll put a fan in front of my heater and close my eyes so that the warm air may blow on me and allow me to remember the wind, for it is still there even when it seems as though it is not...
August 20, 2009
Hunger.
It's back. Again. This sinking feeling in my guts. A pit in my stomach, rumbling and turning around like an old rickety washing machine at the laundrymat on the corner. I don't know how to quench it. I devour things, endlessly, and they just aren't enough to satisfy it. The beast that dwells in there is neverending. I feel like a dog chasing my tail; it's just out of my reach, but I am obsessed with catching it, no matter how daunting the task. I NEED to catch it. End it. Suppress it. Cover it with silk and satin and cool it with lace and iron. Put a mask on it and pretend it's something else. Something needs to be done. This hunger is a compulsion that I cannot escape. It beckons me and controls me as though I were a marionette. Its plump, wrinkled appendages are disgusting and vulgar. I can feel them touching and pulling and pushing me down. Caving in only to be stuffed, fruitlessly once more. This cycle, this routine, is exhausting. But it's there forever. I need filler. Bulk. Swaths and ribbons and chunks of something, anything to make it stop. If only for a moment I could quiet it so I could think. I can't hear anything when there is this constant rumble in my ears. This throbbing behind my eyeballs from the strain of it all. It's too much. I must feed it again. I have no choice. If I don't feed it it will torture me, endlessly, all night long. Begging and pleading with me to give it anything within arms reach. This black hole inside of me. This pit. This cave. This canyon with no bottom and no top. This infinite starvation that never ceases. No answer is enough, it just yearns and yearns and yearns. One day I shall find the cure. I will find a stopper made of humble cork or delicate glass that will be just the right fit, and for once I could shut this damnable monster up. I could tune it out so that I may focus. I could catch it with my toothy jowls and not let go once I do. Cure it. Soothe it. Distinguish it forever. But till then I search, running in circles, chomping at it. Breathlessly. Impatiently. Listlessly. Desperately...
August 14, 2009
POW.
It's back. I can feel it coursing through my veins, bubbling and tickling my insides. My bones are a'flutter and my heart skips a beat. It's like the sky and the stars and the moon are pulling me up and and up and up. I can't help but have a grin on my face and a spring in my step. There is so much more around me than my little nest, and sometimes it's hard for me to realize that. But now I am certain that the good stuff is on its way. That special electricity is in the air again, and the wind smells fresh and clean. I just want to take it all in and revel in it. Flop around in it, and do cartwheels and somersaults, and roll and splash and play in it. It's time...
August 13, 2009
Bitter.
I feel sick today. I'm tired. Cranky. My muscles are tight and stiff and sore. There's a pang in my chest and a scowl on my face. I'm sad. I think I'll lay in bed today. I'm laying in bed right now as I type this, in fact. The curtains are drawn, and it's dark in here, in spite of it being only 9:28am. I feel haunted. Maybe if I pretend that I'm not here nobody will notice that I actually am. I feel disgusting. Weird. Fat. Old. But mainly sad... If I close my eyes tight enough will the ghosts go away? They are everywhere, and I don't know how to escape from them. I want a fresh perspective. I am doubtful. And I'm a cynic. I miss the butterflies. Although... they are probably the most terrifying ghosts of all. Those treacherous motherfucking butterflies. Bastards. I've never known anyone as despicable as they are. Liars. Cheats. Pricks. I need to wash my mind out with soap and some steel wool. I need to cleanse myself of all this garbage. The ghosts and the butterflies can go fuck themselves as far as I'm concerned. I'm staying under the covers today. Sheltered and alone, as it should be...
July 30, 2009
Failure.
I've been through this more than once. In fact, I think I've been through this for most of my life. Even as a child I was going through this. There is an ebb and flow about it. It comes and goes like the tide or the seasons or the revolving door at a shopping center. You go into one slot, and magically end up on the other side. It's inevitable, and terribly, terribly persistent. A tough one to fight your way through. The stagnancy is smothering. All encompassing, really. I don't know how to talk when I'm like this. I say things merely to say them, but they mean little to nothing at all. It's no wonder that people don't understand me because I am speaking a language that nobody but me has ever heard of. It was easy for a while, there. It was as though the channel had changed and I could relax for once. I had plans. I had a future all laid out for me. But the cards fell and they landed all upside-down and askew, and not in any way that I'd hoped they would. These things brought unexpected change, and that was good overall. But now... I fear that I am chickening out. I question my every move and motive. Where I once (albeit briefly) saw a path in front me, now, I see an infinite road to nowhere. I am incredibly familiar with failure, and frankly, I'm downright intimate with it. We've been having a sordid and raunchy affair for years, you see. It's one of those affairs that draws you back in, even when you know just thinking about it would be a mistake. But you simply can't help yourself. It's all you know, and without it you are nothing...
July 25, 2009
Soft.
I want to be soft. It's all I long for, really. To live a life amongst the clouds, floating along, comfortable as can be. I want to be pure, and robustly alabaster. I want the light to shine on me with a sort of fuzzy glow like on an old fashioned soap opera. When I walk into the room people would smile, with just a slight turn of the corners of their lips. I would receive kind greetings and salutations from all who cross my path throughout the day. There would be an air about me, of something that is delicate and wise and true. People would look to me for advice, but I wouldn't have to say anything to them; I'd only have to provide an ear to hear them with because that's all they really would need anyhow. And I wouldn't only hear them, but I would actually listen to them and pay attention. All anyone wants is validation. People think the world revolves around love, but that isn't true. What we actually need is someone to acknowledge us and appreciate our contributions to the world. Love does nothing but provide us all with heartbreak and disappointment. This, you see, is why being soft is so important to me. One needs as much softness as one can get in order to cushion the blows. "Pew! Pew! Pew!" becomes a gentle "Poof. Poof. Poof." Now really, nobody can cry at that, can they? They can only sweetly smile, turn, and go on their merry way...
July 23, 2009
Habits.
Say you've been living your life a certain way for a certain number of years, then suddenly there is a shift. You've become so accustomed to this lifestyle that any change is a bit of a shock to the system, so this shift is feeling more like a tremendous earthquake followed by a tsunami of monumental proportions. It was quiet in its approach. Sneaky, really. You keep checking and checking to be certain that this change occurred, and indeed, it has. You've set up your life to revolve around certain rituals and routines, and now...well... those routines no longer matter. You feel as though you are mourning a death of these habits. There was so much fear injected into you for having to live that way, and now the cause of the fear is vanished into the darkness as if it were never there to begin with! So suddenly... my goodness, you can go on with your days living "normally" once again. But... somehow, oddly, the fear remains. There is no longer a basis for it, but it is so incredibly familiar and almost... comfortable. Letting go of the fear feels desperate and more scary than the fear itself ever was to begin with. It was something to cling onto and define yourself by. It became a part of who you are, and now it has no purpose in your life any longer. But, without it, you almost long for it when instead you should be rejoicing. You feel naked and awkward and empty. It is a strange feeling, indeed...
July 19, 2009
Babylon.
Other people have said it better than me. Thought it more clearly, without tangles and knots. They've seen this already before them, and conquered it. Perhaps not victoriously, but sometimes even in defeat. No matter how it's been done, they are finished with it and I imagine that must be quite a relief. To pass through and be able to look back at it, as though it were ant-like people swarming below as you watch from the heights of a great skyscraper. Clarity abounding all around you. Seeing for miles in every direction, and having an absolute view of all that is there and to feel precisely which way the wind blows against your cheek. It's a warm wind indeed, but it has a mighty cold chill to it. A chill that bares its teeth at you...sometimes it even bites a little. But that wind is enough to snap you out of it and remind you that not all is what it appears to be. That skyscraper can become engulfed in the fog and the muck. The waste of all who are careless and self-centered. Who go along their lives emitting their pollution with every step. It spews out of their rears to be sure, but the most poisonous toxins are the ones that seep out of their mouths. It's a lovely day, we all say. Or it's rotten and dark and miserable. It's all we can do to pass the time. Except for those chosen few that have done it already. Those ones that fight through their fears and face the overwhelming mediocrity head-on. Looking all of this ridiculousness dead in its bleary, bloodshot eyes and not being scared or turning away from it. It's all about the attitude, I suppose. Carrying yourself a certain way. Straightening out your posture, and correcting yourself every time you accidentally glance down at your slovenly feet. Your mind rapidly turns to imagining every germ and speck of dust that your soles collect along the way, and it's so easy to become wrapped up in it. To want nothing more than to scrub and scrub and scrub to wash it all off. But one day you come to realize that all the scrubbing in the world won't make those germs and specks of dust go away. Ever. They are a part of you, and they always will be...
