The Way We Live
I think there's a sort of comical sensation in being American.
In living a life in which cynicism is my second language,
dark humor is my first language,
and the look on my face is something akin to disdain when I'm merely regarding what I'm observing just for what it is.
I cannot, in my life, bring more to the center stage, my poignant dislike for the things that are real.
The very essence of what makes us human.
In how our skin feels,
how our ears hear,
how we touch and caress the smoothness of one another's lips that we deem to be our significant other.
It's like a fragrance.
Strong on the first spray,
subtle after walking away.
Rather funny how I can hate it for its messy composition,
then love it for all its imperfections later.
I think there is some love for it.
Some hate for it.
Either way, it is a colloquial thing.
To abstain from being everything short of the Perfect Thing.