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Life Courses

by Mia Lynn 7 months ago in surreal poetry

Tunnel Vision or The Grand Scope

Life Courses
Answers Aren't Always Found In A Book... Live and Learn... Watch and See

I turned my head around the corner.

What I see...

what's right before me,

my life's whole story.

Written like an old testament, presented as a new testament

that was plainly a testament

of the crossroads in my life.

It was a four-way intersection,

right there,

laying out in front of me.

On display,

are all the directions with their different perceptions,

by the many different vehicles passing by.

I judge not,

simply observe, connecting

what I've known to what I see.

As they

one at a time,

come stopping at the stop sign,

seeming to know

where they're to go.

Passing me by,

while I wallow,

on what direction to follow.

Behind me was the woman busy with her daily tasks... possibly about to hang her dirty laundry out to dry in the blistering sticky heat of the sunny Sunday sky that reflected off her skin. I watched her... as she came to stop upon these minutes just shy of these hours to smell the tar-covered roses and bleached out fragrant house flowers. To watch her was like... not allowing her to stop but pushing her to move on. No one needs that second look, that second glance, that second sniff... For they are just so wrapped up in sweet memories, memories that are just so perfect that they're just as bright as the day... The day, she had to give up to the years of responsibility that snubbed her sense of smell, washed out her sight, drowned her taste in paste, blistered her skin, and drove cotton in her ears... And, it progressed on...

...and supposedly made her grow strong.

Across the street

rocking to and fro

to his own beat

peaking up over his grimy wheel

was a scorned old love hater.

He was a bitter puckered face

prosperity striving head-case.

Who...

Each season came and went,

not a penny spent.

There was no time... no time, no time

for childish foolish love play.

Never choosing his words wisely,

dictator tone demanding devotion, loyalty,

and never... ever any! emotion.

He never stopped working,

always remaining in constant motion

till he was

going, going, gone.

Walking down the sidewalk to this road are the shoes worn by, me. A sidewalk so many have taken and walked down in their own shoes that they took from their shelves and claimed to be their own. Their own shoes for their own paths. Well, these were, my shoes, worn by me while walking this path in my own perspective. These shoes, my shoes, are wearing out, breaking down, and falling apart from comfort, too much comfort. We never want to give them up. They become our pacifiers to the gravel on our journies and they become the security blankets on our feet as we tread new paths we have not yet taken, even if many others have. But... what if my shoes break into pieces and I'm left with only the kindness of another, to borrow their shoes. Do I take them and walk a mile or politely decline and continue in mine? I wonder.

In front of me...

Is the pink hair

of tight ripped jeans

with a man bun that would make a princess jealous.

Doe like expression,

lost in inner depression.

"What are you smiling at?"

from a voice like a drone.

"I'm smiling at you."

my voice seemed to retort.

"Do I look in the mood?"

continued this drone.

"No, but that means little to either of us."

my voice trailed as his beater bailed.

An admission that yeah,

that wasn't very nice.

I guess...

I'm not that nice but...

does it really matter?

'Pink man buns' is content in a self-imposed

bubble... yes, yes that's right

A bubble

Shhh... Please No Talking

Two seconds later...

You're too quiet, I can't handle that either.

"What do you want from us, skinny jeans?

I'm just a girl trying to do what you told me to."

Anymore...

I despise these boxed down sugar and bottled up spice,

relationships.

They created #metoo but that apparently means little.

It feels, like...

all this is for not.

That it's all now just nice, meaningless, idle chatter.

To which I say "Fine, I won't talk!"

But I conveniently forget and go on...

The sun shone through the window like a peekaboo through the smokey air quietly moving the curtains of her hair. I could barely see the weight of her stare as she was wiping off her whiskey glasses. She seemed the type to keep the steady busy bar "we're open" sign up long enough for a desperate few. She was now on my right and a dreadfully tired sight. Probably a three-shot, stale air filling, whispering meaningless muses kind of girl. Now try skipping down the sidewalk to the sound of that suicide music and that cigarette burning. Makes it hard to wait through last-call keeping a light-hearted buzz but who am I to say a thing or two about this or that. Everyone deserves attention and this here missy is a Daisy of a personal charity case. In the morning her eyes will sleepily peer at the day questioning again what she did the night before as she squints at the mirror.

Now...

damn it,

we all hate living

in too much open space

or...

packed into a tin can

damn it,

we all hate to work

hard not to be the best

yet...

hard not to be like all the rest

it's all equally hated

when being the fool

means failing at life's tests.

Maybe, just maybe

they're failed

due to the smackdown

fight of the century

it's:

Complacency,

underachieving, space craving anti-hero

weighing in as a light-weight of

lack of effort cause what's the point

versus:

The overzealous,

overachieving, tin can loving savior

for the economic world

weighing in at a heavy-weight of all-knowing

and never wrong

Now... Let's get ready to rumble

Upon this thought appears a luxury suit. An airtight 3 piece, turn of the twentieth-century babyface in a suit, suit. The suit to make all other suits envious. First thought, mob-connected. Next thought, overcompensation for personal shortcomings. Final thought, a firm believer that money buys happiness. Probably a combo mix with a roaming eye for fancy women who know a few tricks.

I break.

I look down.

Empathy steals me.

Looking at my worn, torn, overused shoes I realized that what was to my right waiting to speed off, was more than likely, a product of something tragic. Poor upbringing with abuse to the mother, maybe no parents, maybe drill Sargent rules to live by, maybe any number of events that weren't magic. Had an intervention happened decades past it might have made all the difference but his leathered babyface now shown ways that are to deep-set in. So deep-set in that no one else around him could ever live to win against him.

I spoke too soon.

To my utter surprise, only two blocks down his breaks went on. In climbed a wife (titanic rock in the sun is hard to miss). His wife or not wasn't clear, obviously, but his counterpart, his twin, his 3 piece suit in heels set in her ways of fellow sin were as clear as if inches away not two blocks.

She threw me.

Mixed up my thought process.

Now I couldn't remember but only question my own motives at this point in time. Was this really the right track I asked her reflection in her passenger's side mirror as she drifted out of sight. When would I finally greet myself as myself and not a tail for any of these souls of frail? I want to lounge in my shoes longer watching the sweet breezy days turn into the bright blue blazing nights. My motivation should have been intrinsic but dormant was its continuous moment.

"Excuse me miss, but you dropped your book."

"Oh... I hadn't noticed. You're in white, how lovely. Is he lucky or are you?"

"My wife to be is waiting and we both are lucky."

"Progression, the slow change that changes secrets into truths and stress into smiles. Well, congrats to you both!"

"You're more than welcome to sit in on our service if you'd like."

To my left was a gazebo, the town's gazebo. I hadn't even realized where my shoes had taken me. I was no longer at the intersection. No longer at the 4 ways to go. I was, in fact, standing on the outskirts of what looked to be a very beautiful gathering for a beautiful reason. The brunette in white was already gracing the floor with her soft small feet on her way to her best friend. What an amazing sight to feel. It mattered not what anyone else thought only that they got to spend every up and every down with that one person they wanted to always be around.

And that was it. Standing to take on the rest of the day. The particularly special day that was still ticking away. It wasn't about who to follow, although maybe my choice was to follow in the wedded bliss's footsteps. The misbegotten woman thinking of nothing but her suburban wife life mother to piles of laundry and homework wasn't a direction it was a destination. A very tiresome destination but worthwhile in the end, or so they say. For some, the jury is still out because they're still waiting for their family to notice and appreciate their existence. I digress.

The old man's life was not a direction either but more an ill-advised and poorly executed decision. His time alive wasted on coulda, woulda, shoulda, maybe, nah, never, but what if's aged him bitterly. His work that he put over any emotions cost him dearly. Though his pride would stiffen his admittance to that fact. Contrasted ever so completely by the pink-haired millennial with the overdone attitude clearly in a hurry to get nowhere cheaply, uniquely, dramatically, artistically, and linguistically abbreviated. Of course, that's again clearly no direction, that's just a literal version of the fictional Peter's Lost Boy's. I'd rather not chase my tail for the rest of my existence, just to complain that I was cheated. Even if I was, where does that get me? Exactly, still chasing my tail depleted.

Ah, and then there's the bar whore, how could that be anyone's desired direction. I mean maybe if this was 1856 and her ma ran a whore house just 10 sinful miles east of Eden and she was groomed to keep the house succeeding. Nope, this was an unheard cry for help long given up and unaware of how to care anymore. So despite my magnetic pull making me itch to intervene that's just my soul in physical pain for a direction. My soul's desire to be a martyrized angel for self-gratification and justification for my inability to pick a more personal path. So the woman of a sloppy nature followed up by the woman of a snobby nature. The passenger's seat to the suit. The passenger's seat that's only direction was to strategically place herself in the passengers seat and not the driver's seat because she can bail before the car crashes and be the better businesswoman in the end. Providing that is, that the car doesn't get rammed on the passenger's side. The risks, the risks for the choices chosen to defend.

But ah,

the wedding.

The brides.

Now that's a direction.

A marriage

for the right reasons

not the financially benefiting reason,

or impulsive lusty reason,

or the knocked up forced to grow up reason...

Nope,

the all-out best-friends

admitting they can't be without each other reason.

Now that's a direction.

A direction,

that even this Life Course's book

completely forgets exists.

surreal poetry
Mia Lynn
Mia Lynn
Read next: Poem: New Life
Mia Lynn

I'm a mother, wife, daughter, writer, artist, photographer, masters degree graduate, deep thinker, reader, and a depressed anxious sarcastic cynical bitch. I mean what more could you ask for, right? (All Words & Designs Original! #picsart)

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