Monday, October 20, 2014

Numbers, Emotion, and Energy

To be just a number. A statistic. Perhaps it's all we can ever be, if that.

Some show less emotion than others, but emotion is always there somewhere. Some bury it deeper than others, but it's always there.

There's energy around us and energy within. Some have more than others and it's not always consistent. It ebbs and flows.

Being that number each of us is, pushing against the glass ceiling of our world, we can channel that emotion, seek places to put that energy. None of it may ever make us anything more than a number, a statistic, but we'll feel that emotion and we'll use that energy until that day when we close our eyes for the last time.

Monday, October 6, 2014

Random Smells and Acts

The walls around her occasionally cracked. She never felt indestructible or anything foolish like that, but they couldn't keep her down, "they" being anyone or anything directly or indirectly attempting to get in the way of her goals.

She disliked everyone else's smell. She wished she could walk down the street without ever having to smell anyone else. Shampoo recently rinsed out of hair still wet, perfume freshly spritzed, body odor of someone leaving the gym – none of it made her day any better. Home cooked foods steaming through open row home windows – there was a smell she could enjoy, moreso if she were hungry (but not too hungry).

The randomness of it all really got to her, that of the smells and that of the occasional circumstances conspiring to bring her down. That of those stories she read weekly in the paper or saw when she opened up Yahoo!. Devious, targeted attacks never bothered her. At least the planned stuff had some purpose, she thought, good or bad or indifferent. She'd do her best to stay one step ahead of those who plotted her demise.

But the random acts, those without rhyme or much reason, if any, those were a source of frustration. To accept a lack of control while preparing as best she could, that's what she tried to do.

Monday, September 22, 2014

Sunday Looks

The thin tined comb pulled hairs tight against his scalp, cutting through pomade. A new blade glided down the side of his face and around its contours and curves, revealing smooth skin. He buttoned his solid white collared shirt and tucked it into khakis, pulled the laces of his brown leather shoes taut and tied a knot. To be seen was inevitable and he wanted people to see the easy precision in his execution of all things, including his Sunday ensemble.

Next door, another man slowly rose from a comfy couch and reached for a pair of sweat socks he'd brought downstairs that morning. He put on the socks and stretched, arms in the air impossibly attempting to connect fingertips with the ceiling. He felt a little light headed and sat back down to put on his beat up old sneakers. His left hand stroked his head's oily hair and he realized he looked like a guy who'd just rolled out of bed, though he'd been awake for hours.

These men noticed each other as they left their houses. One stepped out for a walk with no particular place to go. The other had errands and a friend to meet for coffee. They made eye contact and nodded simultaneously in silence, and went about their days. The city absorbed them both, they lived in partnership with its mechanisms, leaning on each other and everyone else. They were free.