tonic
unscrew a cap, experience sophistication
an effervescent armaggedon of climbing fizzing—
success of the commons by aggregate aggravation,
by collective behavior from a carbon nation
fizzing to fizzling out, inklings to strong feelings
the bubbles spill out like an inappropriate yawn—
an irascible climax in an amorphous prism
a cage of self-loathing, bars of hedonism
bedwritten
what do i know of perfect memories
of an entire day spent in bed;
on bedding figure-molded, in-broken
never-ending pleasantries among pleasant conversation
spoken from warm lips kissing left swollen
a comfortable living off refrigerated food not needing heating;
no appointments, no meetings
instead a schedule of catnaps to maximize not sleeping
(her company was preferable to dreaming)
from a softly-seamed, horizontal window seat
his brain begins filming, later editing, finalizing
his time-lapse cinematography
of seemingly-perfect memories
Marketing is king.
lisztomania
a brick wall mortared by trips happily afforded
a twin-size bed, two pillow-blanket spreads
an exclusive sale of emotional apparel
an impractical schedule, scheduled habitual
an experiential remodeling of interior design
a deception of mind by intermittent, grander times
chivalry is dead
There is nothing more chivalrous in the world than a man with headphones on. He is a man who visibly parades his current need to listen only to his music, and nothing more. Not the city, your words, or his troubling regrets, no; he puts the headphones on, and lets the music animate the world around him.
Looking out from a train window is the private music video starring him, our Apple-product-clad man—it is a crucifixion of his cliches, and a romanticism of everything else emotional. As for getting off that train, into the business of the train terminal, and eventually the street, well that all becomes the movie protagonist’s audibly-justified ardor. The beat becomes the pace of his footfalls, and the lyrics his attitude towards either himself or the particular person his eyes have fallen on. He will fall in love with a complete stranger, physically clamor for her, or hate another man for being a manifestation of his own developmental fallout. All of these things are momentary, but continuous in their chronology.
So when he holds a door, flashes a smile at you, and is again on his way, know what it is. It is a flash of irreplicable politeness, a demonstration of true chivalry.
A headphone-clad knight, pseudo-present in his world and yours, found you more romantic than his world of harmonies.
pastels
They sat behind separate desks hundreds of miles apart, contentedly engrossed in the video representation of each other they had long gotten used to. Romantic music played through the video feed like in a technicolor silent movie, and they smiled perfectly-happy smiles across flickering screens. He typed to her, whispering in her ear how beautiful their house would be, and she bit softly on her lip so her smile wouldn’t get too big. It’ll be white with blue shutters. We’ll have a cherry blossom tree in the middle of our yard—and in the spring, we can lay underneath it while the kids play and let the blossoms fall on our faces.
He couldn’t tell if the fondness in her eyes was for him or the memories they could have, but he didn’t care—it was good enough for him. He breathed life into their house, and gave their future names and faces. We’ll have two daughters, and name them Jane and Daisy. They’ll take after you and they’ll be beautiful.
They never really believed it, but it was a pretty enough ending to imagine, so they did. They sat together at different desks, and let themselves be wholly lost in the perfectness of it all—in the color and vividness of the world they painted together. I’ll be the strict parent; I know that. And when I yell at them, you’ll be there to hold their crying frames in your arms, tell them daddy loves them, and didn’t mean to yell.
And suddenly, she was so close—sitting right across from him and sharing his deskspace. The flickering was gone, and so was the distance.
———-
He would be a liar if he said he didn’t believe in long distance relationships anymore.
Played 435 Times
I’m having a lot of trouble not listening to this song.
diorama
Everything’s grand when we’re young.
Take the bed which we now spend less than eight hours a day sleeping in. Though it comfortably fits our now-all-grown-up bodies, it will never be what it used to be. When we were younger, our beds were expansive—they were a playground for our imaginations and playthings, and a place of creative companionship. Every spot was a sweet spot; a bed was never more of a bed than when we were young.
On weekend mornings, you could play beneath the sheets in another world illuminated by sunlight, or at night venture into a darker, spookier world traced by room lamplight peeking through the blanket’s natural incongruities. In the summer, you shed your thick comforter for a thinner cover still able to protect you from the monsters. Illuminated by streetlights through your window-blinds, your bed became a metropolis of stars, a place to roam adventurously and discover all the secrets of the now-not-so-big universe. Every now and then, a car would pass through the quiet street outside, its headlights a lost meteor shower visiting your tiny stretch of the night sky.
And in the winter, we could abandon everything else in the world, and seek refuge in our fortress of soft sheets. We could hide from the dark, the monsters in our closets and under our beds, and the morning cold. We could hide from the future in that bed that will never be grander.
Some days, we still try to; we hide beneath those sheets, clutch onto our childhood, and try to see the extraordinary out of the most ordinary things. Sadly, the bed’s not as grand as it used to be.
We’ve grown bigger, but the world’s grown bigger, too.
