Why is it so cool to be so bad? Is everyone innately bad, or is it just these bloody Californians? And how can people front and mask themsleves as progressive, conscious, aware beings if they have no moral fiber in their spines? I feel like I'm pretty damn open and liberally minded, and on this level I assumed that California would be a fitting state, but somehow openness and the desire for a collective good have become surface layer qualities disguising the collective's corrupted, self-induced evils and destruction, and everywhere I go people are shooting up - proud of their resumes brimming with drug experiences, unprotected public sex, DUIs, nights in jail, and obvious lies. Where have all the flowers gone?
I am so sick, I am so f-ing tired of being surrounded by people who are this vaingloriously tall upon their match-sticks. I mean, COME ON San Francisco! We, the people, are pressed to be the progress for the rest of the nation; if word gets out that all our great ideas come from acid trips and a few rounds with the unbathed homeless, and all our confidence is a product of the most chugs during impetutious popped collar episodes of "never have I ever," I fear I'll be dragged into the tow and become a dangerous part of a double-life society. We'll save the environment and the mentally ill by day, and recklessly party with them by night as we toss our ciggarette butts into the bushes and out of mind.
I know too many yoga instructors who drive drunk, and too many teachers with warrents for their arrest, and too many folks who are out of the closet but keep their anger and addictions and egocentricity locked in a chest.
Where are the pure in heart? Where are the innocent? I want to learn from them. Until I am surrounded by their peace and clear intent to better themselves and all the rest, I cannot rest; I'll continue to cry in my sleep.
This is my frustration, preceded only by my inabilty to catch my breath and my nervous hand guestures when I speak. While so vexed and turned off of my neighbors, I still find myself eager to impress them. At work, I clock in and out as a temporary employee without health insurance, who must go eons beyond the outlined expectations to ensure a little job security; each day I am reminded that I'm under the magnifying glass, being ever-evaluated. The anxiety that's produced from it all follows me through the streets and avenues and tails me like a shadow into my sheets at night. I dream in shallow breaths and burrowed eyebrows. I thirst for calm, but I munch on cheez-itz instead.
When I wake in the morning, Apollo greets and asks of me these questions three: Who are you? What do you live for today? Why are you here?? But as I pound my alarm into silence and stumble to the bathroom, I avoid the answer. I do not know. I am trying to make something of the days and of myself, but since there's no clear aim in mind or way to measure my success, I live in deep fear that I'm just not making it good enough, moist enough, or sweet enough for anyone.
In a bucket of vulnerability, I confess that I'm worried the life I'm baking has already gone cold and hard and stale. My anxieties spill from one topic to the next: I'm not compassionate enough. I'm not quick enough. I'm certainly not pretty enough.
I am nothing enough.
So I'm haunted with worry, and exhausted with frustration, and I'm starving within a lonely shell. The words of the past's great minds echo in here, "Carpe Diem! Suck the marrow out of life!" But I misplaced my straw and seem to be sucking at everything else anyways.
This is exactly where I am when I teeter to the other dimension of my fine line. Contentment is a sneaky bastard, and just as quickly as it appears it'll fade away, so I haven't yet put a load of trust in it. Though, when it's here, it is trascendentally beautiful. I forget all the other muck I mirk in daily and my attention goes completely to it. It's the giant flock of birds twisting and turning together in a spontaneous tango with the wind; it's the sliver of pink that lasers through the fog when the sun sets behind it; it's the smiley face tagged on cement next to a rain puddle...
When my angst and nerves and loath get the best of me, the best of me is at least gotten. It's out of its locked up chest and getting a good shake in fresh air. There's nothing not to smile about with that.
Pretty much I'm just a confused, tipsy-turvy mess of a girl. With days like today, days like I've had, I can't tell you which way is up or what door takes you out. If I had a choice, I'd pick door number 3. Maybe that's the door all the flowers are hiding behind.
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