January 3, 2015

auld lang signs


An unexpected guest is either a spark of forgotten delight or else a drawn-out tedious formality. I always tend to wax and wane from one to the other all in the same evening. Whatever sentiment arises from the surprise is at times convoluted by present circumstance. It doesn't take much.

Strangers are barely themselves anymore, anyway. There's always some cobwebs clinging to who they are. I'd be lying if I said I didn't collect them. In the future everyone is micro-famous. It's an exclusive relationship that no one mentions in fear of deep social shame and also because the worshipping of other humans is inherently creepy. Religious zeal and adoration should only be reserved for spiritual deities and theological figures because they can't put a restraining order on you.

It's with a strained enthusiasm that I might meet my idols. Brief idols, wherein a flicker of earnestness is doused by ill-timing, only to be rekindled by some small brush of fingers or a furtive glance. There is a temptation that bears resemblance to something I can only imagine Catholics live for-- the sin of trading in your faith for a ride on the back of a motorcycle. Or something like that. I begin to believe that sin is not so much a transgression as it is a currency for living. You are always left wondering if it was worth it afterwards.

I wouldn't hedge my bets on your face, your charm, not even on the way you look at me. They're merely neon signs illuminating from someplace I never meant to be. If you know what is good for you, you already know what is supposed to happen. Sometimes nothing is supposed to happen at all. You don't need souvenirs from every place you go.

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