Sometimes I am in tiled galleries of meanings. Sometimes I pass by as superfluous. Often I am only a reflection of your feeling. Goddamn feelings! I carry the weight and those invisible sentiments steal my thunder. The other day, Jake, a teenager who likes to paint graffiti instead of attending school, rose early in his gun infested neighborhood. It was four am and he was out in shorts and fresh pimpled skin – painting my ass in cursive – all exposed as if there isn’t enough gratification in world already. What happened to my long draped F and L, the cross connecting, slender arms of H and just with the hint of sexy cleavage owners – M and N? I struggled as he pitched my bare, over sexed existence on the fermenting wall. I desperately hoped for decent folks to come by and dress me with a fresh coat of white out overalls. A long shot, indeed.
Not too far from here, there is a girl, Emma, eleven and surprisingly polite who has a habit of mixing me up. She forms some funny words and meanings no one can understand. It is just between me and her, our secret code. After she closes her journal, I rearrange myself for some time to catch a breather. You see it is hard to adjust to a change I am not expecting, but it is fun to stretch my limits. Someone who claims to be a motivational speaker must have said that by now. Nothing is original these days, only recycled thoughts and lives. I am tired of making rounds. Then there is a crowded courtroom of dictionaries, thesauruses and all those crazy places that call themselves online – something I classify as nowhere and everywhere at the same time. They police my spelling even when they come up with something worse. Well, look into my eyes and don’t blink if you have never swore on the auto-correct feature even once!
I am evolved to be limited. Like human mind. Like number of alphabets. Some days, however, I want to shake up my creator and tell him to live a day in silence. Let the sounds of nature fill his senses so he can welcome me again. Some days, I just want to collapse into one, bold and beautiful word: listen. Some days, I want the page to stay blank and the tongue to be patient. And on those days, I know why Emma smiles without writing and Jake wonders, up late in his bed if someone will ever look at him long enough to form an opinion?
Some days, I long not to be a carrier of feelings but transcendence itself. Wishful thinking.
Above 450 words inspired by a new challenge I came across today – Prompted: It’s Alive (or is it?)