is more about cachet in my mind and those who don’t need to prove their trove is full of the heavy books I’d read various volumes on, the same ‘ole social stratification amongst the genders and races in order to erase or earn for a four year seal of empty promises, for intense giving away of my life stores—time and money and old, fairy-tailed beliefs in the name of being a yellow, highlighting artist, with ethereal wings of fluorescent sticky notes when in the end, all in tall-tale eternal truths, can be summed up as there are the “have’s,” and the “have-not’s.”
I am living in a house on the hill in an up and coming backdoor community featured with fish and colorful Victorian picket-roofed houses painted in every startling color-blind-man paint hue one can image, these becoming starkly beautiful beacons during the bleary peeling purple-gray of winter months, when just a few sunbeams shine just right, like piercing fingers from heaven, the town seems a paper, toggled cut-out, something from a dream everyone once had of an old time place in their unnamed histories of a childhood trip, a past-life or the ghosts of déjà vu?
And the draw is immediate, an Instagram filter shot, an out of the box 3-D viewing, as most of dreams have now been erased with the office supply stores, staples and a sea of chains, neon hamburgers, even coffee beans linked to hippie starts of stars and everyone is swimming in personal space bubbles of the other and the smells of all wafting in vanilla perfumes, pressing their bodies, cars and bags in everywhere the same, the same, which is a no-man’s land.
While on the tread mill, a song came shuffling onto my now misfiring apple device (for age alone) titled, Nobody Girl, They don't know you anyway, they don't know you, and they don't watch you walk away, just a nobody girl.
Video Credit: Youtube/lorro85
