I don’t know what I want, but I know what I don’t want. I think about these lines and their truth to me as I walk to the bus. It is funny how earbuds in ears, walking past sleepy houses still tucked in with dusk and yawning into dawn, cars passing like ships in the night, folks nodding morning greetings as they hurry in shuffled steps—I feel completely in solitude, as if I need their sleepy chaotic energy to fuel my thoughts.
My thoughts dart and duck like shadows. Fleeting, yet all-encompassing in their fleetingness. I think of loss, of pain, of my own stupidity in matters of the heart. I think of writing, of memories resurrected like martyrs of my past. I think of poets, their impact, words ringing in my ears like little bells of truth. I think of pedestals and how foolishly people set things on them to worship the fiction of them. This angers me and I quicken my pace to keep up with my thoughts. Reality holds more honest beauty than fiction. So many people I know seem in love with the idea of a person and not the actual person them-self. How sad to be in love with an idea. It is not corporal. You cannot physically touch an idea. You cannot explore the depths of a two-dimensional idea as much as you can delve into the terrifyingly vast multitudes of an actual human being. But vastness and multitudes leave so much more space to get hurt—unpredictables. I guess it is easier to be in love with an idea. But rarely things that are easy are worth their ease, and I would much rather feel the pain of actually knowing a person than an idea of them.
My mind settles from its dust of thoughts on a pale object in the grass. As I get closer I find the object to be circular, a Frisbee. A pale pink circle with a daisy that says, “Life is good.” It sat there; Torn, dirty, worn from use, and weather beaten—left like trash in the yard. I looked at it, the print so bold and concise, and believed it to be true.