(no subject)
I suppose I am a bit conflicted for a twenty-five year old.
Here I am, buying brand new furniture, and here I am in a little apartment all to myself, when suddenly, as I desperately try to choose between Olive or Sage, leather or microfiber couches, the camera pans to the inside of a Fake Reality and I find myself bantering with Myself, "Oh, Self, is it wide enough for him? Will we both fit on there side by side when we watch a movie, cradled like spoons in that set of expensive silverware I rarely use?"
The curve of my back as it melts into his tummy, his arm gently tucked beneath my shoulder, legs tangled under a pale green, fleece throw.
Will he think this light oak bed frame is too delicate and feminine?
Or should we replace a question mark with a period? Should we. Should I. The ending of things, or seemingly, the matrix, or even, the origin of things...in as much as they could ever really Be.
And suddenly, I realize what I'm doing.
Very few people, it seems, really know where I'm at these days. To think, if I didn't look so young, these sales people with their rotten personal lives neatly folded away in the locker of the employee lounge might actually believe I'm not the 20 year-old colt's tooth, biting away at the bit of adulthood. To think, I can see inside their cleverly covered scars hidden behind perfect makeup and the attempt at an all too geniuine smile.
And I smile, as they turn, as they turn and think, "There goes another sale, walking out the door" as I pull open the door towards certain ambivalence. (How can we sell to a child?) And the dimples mask frustrating opposition towards a smaller paycheck.
And suddenly, I realize, the metaphor here is not as opaque as I thought.
And suddenly, I realize that, like my mind, I write as I play, and I play as though a thousand themes are ruling my direction at any given moment....and Here is a stop sign when in fact the colors really indicate nothing at all.
I am alone, and to be truthful at times, rather lonely. But never in my life have I lived for myself so deeply.
And this couch, the couch that is just long enough for me, just the color for me, just the right depth for me, is mine. And the obnoxiously cozy, Plush Pillowtop Mattress, World Class series, in its bed frame, whichever one I choose, is simply mine to sprawl out and enjoy.
And there is no He.
The camera pans in, to a neatly stacked pile of books, a colorful room...a haven to orchids and living things, a brunette as she delicately turns the pages of an ancient hard cover, and a little fawn dog happily curled up at end of an Olive couch.
The clock ticks of steady constancy.
And the world appears to be more than an illusion.