"1, 2, 3, 4...there ain't no devil; there ain't no lord. 5, 6, 7, 8...only love, only hate."
when i do something bad, i imagine giant axes with dull blades thudding into my sternum, cracking me wide open to my toes. swisschuhdunk, much like the sound of trash meeting predetermined can fate, and there i'd be, bare for all the world. i would look up, the shamed perpetrator, with a sheepish grin. a grand finale where i imagine myself saying, "there, are you happy now? i'm broken; kaput. never to be fixed again." this makes me feel slightly better, and i lay still in bed, enjoying the thought of insides exposed to reveal some mutation or malfunction that they'd blame it on, some simple sum. a clear equation so they could quietly tuck me away with perfunctory resolution. i decided this morning at roughly 2 a.m. that i like the harmonica. just like that, as women decide on new lipstick colors. it isn't as if i haven't heard it a hundred times over in my twenty-four years. it wasn't as if i detested it before, rather practiced an unintentional indifference. it isn't as if it's the "first time", but i find myself crying a little over nothing, and it strikes me. it's passionate and irrational, and it begs to be held with both hands, intimate with half closed eyelids. i decide at 2 a.m. that if i ever decide to play an instrument, it will have to be the harmonica.