A small cream colored condo standing to the front of a well groomed golf course. Two White Explorers parked aside, license plates speaking in unison; 'his' and 'his.' Weeknights after the procession of making commission sales at a appliance super store, playing Scrabble and drinking white wine. Fire burns in the hearth; the gas furnace doesn't smell as natural.
Pasta and chicken with spices cooking at some location within the labyrinth of the structure. The aroma strolls the corridors, but never unveils its secrets. The light dimmed; the music soft. Sunset reflects off the building nearby, streaming happiness into the parlor.
In bed, next to my lover, hands clasped, and heart beating slowly. Relaxed and immersed in joy, awe, and hopeful thoughts, for the life that I will never have.
Running from parents, finding refuge with friends at an Italian restaurant. Eating fresh bread and olive oil, mixed with greens and other spices, to give the taste an extra flare. Ordering nothing else, except water, to cause no charge-- clove cigarettes, conversation, anticipation.
Through the streets of the big city, to the clubs that dominate the night. Music, laughter, happiness-- fast times unadulterated with inhibitions, claims of faith; only organized disobedience.
Following unknown faces into darkened corners, feeling the first plunge into space; an invitation to new tastes. Exploration with medication; bad fungi; an end hurling shallow choices into a swirl of past experiences-- all the while praying for a life instead of the life that I will never have.
Closets feel as safe as ever. Wrapped in a blanket of past thoughts, and times gone by. Dealing with opportunities breached, skipped, or not offered. Speaking the known truth to electronic ears, and a plethora of skeptical spectators. Feeling alone and widowed, to a world that was never really there.
Reading magazines, and listening to others teach. Hearing words, and recollections of another set of variables. Smelling the storage of unrealized dreams and hopes. Dreaming of endless sleep, and sleeping with endless dreams-- of the life that will never cease.
Looking for a way to scream is a frustrating process. One searches through all the possibilities before coming to a final approach. Setting fires, being generally angry, poor social etiquette, or just plain robust bitterness.
At times, I wonder what people think of me. The people reading this. Do they think I'm bitching, moaning, or have serious intention? Am I looking for a way to lay my observations on other people? Am I forceful-- do I not have an ounce of flexibility in me; would I force my opinions on others, seeing no other way?
Maybe I shouldn't think so much.
I know many have been told they weren't good enough. Have many have been told they were too good? Too talented? Too outspoken-- too sure of themselves? How did it turn in the long run? Have many come out on top? Have many jumped the hurdles and prevailed? How many crash when the truth is found?
Do many have more questions than me?
Do you know what I'm thinking?
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