As he gathered himself in front of their mirror, not just in the sense of his acute fashion sense, he had to wonder. Is this really who I am? A question that is hard to answer, yet few have the courage to admit it is one that is needed to be asked. Where or how come this quandary is important is something that I cannot ascertain, and why I the writer of this story must feel the need to tell others that I am not writing this story in the first person but rather a first person third person story about a second person, I cannot tell you. Its the simplest of things that are always the hardest to come to an easy answer. Delve into a lifetime into whatever topic that is challenging and you will find an easy answer. Ask thine self what the meaning of self is and it will only detain your self into either a perpetual lifetime questioning who you are, following the words of some person’s character who fits your paradigm more adroitly than you or understanding how futile coming to an easy answer really is to whatever even the simplest question really is. The world is a beautiful place that is enraptured by minds like Mark J. Spoonfield or at least that is how I perceive it.
He looked back into his eyes again. Those deep brown eyes that have been weathered through experience that could look into another’s soul simply by looking through his ears. To perceive looking into the character of a man through hearing what one does is again a conundrum, but one fraught with a perceptive brain. Most people judge through their eyes first when judging the character of a man. Yet, if asked what they think about their best friend, it is so rarely how beautiful their appearance appears to the outside world. And if it is, I would rather reply with a sarcastic quibble to whatever their perception is than to go off complimenting their insolence (and if you do, get ready for those personal attacks riddled by backlash by someone who cannot perceive how intolerable their behavior really is.)
“Why did I take that DMT hit? What did I get out of it? Who am I? Am I the bacteria inside me or is the bacteria in me? What is bacteria and why is it different than humanity? Why is bacteria more important than the virus I got last year? Why do we kill off organisms if God really is without fault?” all questions flashed through his racing mind. It was a humbling moment in the grand scheme of things. Each man should have at least a few otherwise they will always remain a boy, yet it is quite easy to remain a boy. Girls have it easy, yet all they want to be is a wo-man by that humbling experience of birthing a live birther. It’s programming folks and all society wants is the graphical user interface instead of the underlining code. Why that is, I cannot tell you.
“And for those that weep. Death comes cheap. These men with broken hearts. Oh so humbly you should be; when you come passing by. For it is written that even the greatest of men should never be afraid to cry.” – Hank Williams Sr.
“Good morning honey” evoked his wife to be. Not in the normal sense of a fiance, but in his ardent belief that all a sexual relationship is a precursor to an unholy matrimony.
“Ugh.” This sad homonym again. Why do people repeat these sayings?” Good and mourning might as well just say I’m happy to be sad. Sort of like saying you’re welcome after saying thanks. You’re welcome to what? My property? My thoughts? My sentiments? The simplest of colloquialisms perturbed him immensely.
“Hasta manana” he replied knowing full well she knew no latin variant.
She paced up to him briskly with her shoulder length black hair coming ever closer to meet his 5’10” shoulders. He liked the scent of her musk, but she took a shower everyday day before departing from their shared domicile. Another conformist to societal pressures he thought of her action after he told her how he felt about her stench. Yet, he knew he was nothing more than a hypocrite for thinking he was not one also.
She placed her hands around his collar bone to massage him. It was a simple gesture, but part of the reason why he loved her more than the many others before.
“What are you planning on accomplishing by tonight?” he asked.
“Oh the usual, find some small slight to plight on about how fucked our society is.” she replied with a matter of bluntness.
Mary Rudolph Plenheiser was raised in poverty. Her father who knew very little about book smarts was the wisest man she ever knew. Independence and voluntary effort was what he espoused on a daily basis. This is why he haggled on the busiest street corner during the day and dumpster dived at night. He saved every penny he could, which was not a whole lot, to buy the most worn down cheapest plot of land for a future date. He never understood the concept of “my property” in the normal sense. Why worry about this plot of land if all I want to do is increase how nice the surrounding area is? Would that not increase my property’s value more? Mary was an only child and because of her father’s conviction, she was set to inherit a fortune.
Mary remained within herself, although she was still found to be massaging the man she was “making love” with by way of living with this Mark character. She did not love him in the most true sense of the word and by that I mean in the origin of the Greek word for true love by way of romance. But, she was able to fabricate those emotional feelings through that bondage known as consummation of fornication. It was a spurious relationship enraptured via subconscious training re-enforcing the subconscious train of thought that she was unaware of. Her ego believes in the counterfeit controlling upper conscious thoughts she was raised with that she inherited from her mother. It was unfortunate that her mother died of breast cancer when she was only but a child otherwise Mary’s outward appearance would fit her better.
“I hope you have a good day though Mark.” Mary said as she kissed her neck in preparation of leaving towards the outside day.
“Finally she’s gone.” he thought. It wasn’t that he disliked her, he just knew that today was going to be a bad day mentally. He really wished he had some pot, but he ran out a few days ago. Plus, he had a deadline to meet for his novel that he loathed writing about. Deadlines he always felt were him just about to cross the threshold of death yet never reaching the line. It paid the bills, just barely. He just wanted to write poetry, but that didn’t pay the bills.
He broke out his typewriter to record his thoughts.
When it comes to the frustration I feel, it is ever apparent at the lack of insight of even the most perceptive of individuals that makes me wonder how these people get to these perceptions of reality.
Lacking foresight conundrum
Where is tranquil peeps
I cannot deal with these people! They can talk about the horribleness around them, yet act in the same manner they feel disinclined towards. I loath their acquiescence.
This is likely why fighters (those devoting their livelihood upon it) are the most respectful, honourable persons. They have blood in, out and on the line. Courage is honour. Yet most children robed in adults’ body “work out” to become a better utilize rage. Exercise of the body without the mind is only ringing the dumb bell.
He took a step back and sighed. These thoughts again.
“I need some weed. And not tomorrow” he thought.