Sometimes I stare. But I just can’t help myself from looking at the back of that pretty head. And those slender arms that come to a gentle rest in front of her, dainty fingers drumming away at an invisible tune of a popular song I’ve never heard of. She’s perfect. Her brown hair, her turquoise shirt with all the jewelry, and jeans. I don’t know anything about her, but she’s perfect.
It’s just this feeling I’ve got. An instinctual calling of fate that tells me “this one”. I can tell because my hands get sweaty. I can tell because when she looks towards me, I get hyper-aware. I start to feel my taste buds slide against the inside of my mouth and I can taste my early-morning saliva and lead-ridden drinking fountain water. I have to remind myself to blink every 15 seconds or so. I realize my foot has been tapping, and when I stop it, that potential energy builds up my anxiety. And all this happens with her quickly turning her head to the side to adjust her hair over her shoulder. When I pass her in the hallway, I realize the patter and rhythm to my walking until I start walking with a hobble. My lips feel uncomfortable just sitting there and I move them around until they’re fixed into some sly smile. But I always make sure not to show teeth- they’re not white enough. Maybe there’s something in them.
And as much as I hear “this one” ringing through my head on repeat for hours and hours, I can’t make myself do anything. If she was interested, I’d know, right? But why would she? I can smell my 3-day unwashed jeans when I sit down. Sometimes when she sits down, I get the faint whiff of name brand dryer sheets and mall-grade perfume. She’s perfect. But my shirt has a hole in the collar and I could probably use a haircut. Maybe after some new clothes and grooming I can maybe say ‘hi’.
I like to wonder what would happen if I just collapsed in the middle of everything. Who would rush over? Who would run away? Who would just watch? Who would care? I think about this scenario constantly in many different places, with many different people, but I can’t stop myself from always picturing her to run over first and be upset. Really, really upset. Her eyes filled with tears, holding my lifeless body and sobbing. It’s perfect.
It’s starting. I can feel like heels sticking: no way for me to tap them home. My stomach is empty, but I can feel it expanding. I hate bloating. Ugh, I can’t swallow. I can’t even open my mouth. My lips are sticking! I can’t split them with my tongue. I just keep pushing, and I can feel the dryness of my taste buds scrape my bottom lip- Ah, I got it! No… my tongue just pushed through the top of my chin like 3-hour old bubblegum.
My eye just popped! I can’t see out of my right eye! I can’t see! I just felt my left eye slide down my cheek! I can’t raise my arms anymore! My fingers are stuck together like duck’s webbing. I can feel the change in elevation as my body sinks to the floor.
Tried a more fairy-tale approach for this one! Been trying different writing styles lately. Feedback is welcomed!
A king once told a local blacksmith to build him the strongest shackles in the world so he could capture a dragon and take its gold. In return, the blacksmith would receive a large portion of the wealth.
Immediately after the king’s proposition, the blacksmith ordered his son to travel the world and send him the strongest stones he finds. Whenever the blacksmith received a stone, he molded it into a shackle, and tested the strength of it on himself, as he was a strong man. After several years, the blacksmith had finally found the strongest metal, but he could not tell the king because he had locked himself at home.
There is a common misconception that must be put to rest. Since the development of the modern New Age movement, the mentally-stable did their best to syphon these “New Agers” to California in hopes the state would break off from the rest of the country before causing any cultural harm. Unfortunately, California hugged on with an ectoplasmic grasp, superimposing their “élan vital” onto our realism. Because of this catastrophic phenomenon, our “life forces” have incorporated unwelcomed terms into our vernacular, such as “Qi”, “Feng Shui”, and “spiritual energy”. As preventative as I can be in protecting my patois, I have still managed to acquire the minimal meaning to such modernisms (modern at least in terms of American culture).
The first main problem is the physical complication.
As therapeutic it may seem to devour exotic plants and stab small pins into your back, the placebo effect is far less effective than proven medical practices.
The second main problem is the mental complication.
Sure, meditation and stress management are great skills, but emotional (not physical) energy is a detrimental hoax.
Happiness is not an energy- it CAN be created and it CAN be destroyed.
In order for me to be happy, I must create happiness.
In order for my happiness to not be destroyed- leave me alone.