Sunday, February 12, 2017

Tommy Pickles

The end of the day is always one of my least favorite times.

It's when I reflect on what I've done with my past waking hours; when you finally count your income, and recount your stocks.

In the most literal sense, a recount of the day; waking relatively early for a brisk walk around the park to the upbeat, enjoyably sugarcoated rock bonanzas of Blur's more poppy tunes - B.L.U.R.E.M.I., We've Got A File On You, Charmless Man, and a handful more of the like - followed briskly by inquiring various locales about job opportunities, finally knocking out some self-improving exercises (yes, despite my track record of reclusive calmness, I'm finally pitting myself into the world of physical improvement), and later absentmindedly sitting back to the various programs I've put off for far too long.

Yes, in short form, today has been far more lively than I often would assert; more often than not, my recent past has been spent dwelling near entirely robotically behind the tainted, aimless screens of what the newest generation may call the 'other world'. In a dramatic tone, I was an Everyday Robot...

Everyday robots just touch thumbs
Swimmin’ in lingo they become
Stricken in a status sea
One more vacancy

A vacant, obsessive brain in a jar. Pickled among distilled souls, seeing only the oversaturated, overabundant realities of others. Setting aside any, if not all strands of intellect in favor of simplistic laughs, or undermining settlements. A mind willing to embrace it's vacancy simply because, surely, this emptiness is what defines sociality; what defines the very concept of emotion, by pure relation. 

Amongst all my oversimplified relations, my blinding faiths, my neutering approaches, surely there must be a 'heart' to accepting oh-so-very less? There is a core, there's got to be... 

Surely, I am the one on the journey. I am the one discovering the truths in ignorance. The very institution of reality, of clear-cut understanding, is the very obstacle in my path to enlightened appreciation for the world around me, Surely, that world is not encapsulating me; not jamming my own spirit amongst a vat of sour, though sometimes nice with perhaps a meat or tangy dish, vegetables. 

Alas, I was wrong. Such a pity, reflecting on what was surely an accidental trip into a figurative pit. I was kidnapped and brainwashed by a cartoonish duo of dastardly capabilities - force fed the evil propaganda of an oppressive force, and thoroughly dumped onto the grimy, yet enigmatically - and intrusively - and illusionary - welcoming streets. I was a Hitler youth, proudly flaunting my genuine Aryan infant, blissfully ignorant of- - - err, no, no, totally unaware of - the implications of my works. 

Though the back of my mind continues knocking rather rudely, reminding me of how well I knew said implications, I do find that explaining it in such a way has a nice, glossy ring to it. A tale of woe, an infant dropped from the cradle and into the crosswalk. 

However, as I shut the door, dim the lights, and lay quietly amongst the warmth of a candle and the eyes of the stars, I must admit to myself. As I prefer to always commend my actions as understandable, and entirely aware, I unfortunately did make that trip. I fell behind my own speeding bullet train, a few hundred feet away from Tokyo, and only a few inches away from the warm, cuddly, disgustingly radioactive and horrifically corrosive toes of the Smog Monster. What upsets me is that, though I proudly embraced this fearful foot of foreboding fate (and, as I back off from the comparative writing style), I always had inklings of doubt. Knowledge of my actions. Understandings, that - perhaps - though I did choose to dive into the jar, perhaps I really ought to swim back for air rather than drift even deeper. 

Unfortunately, I made the oddly out-of-character choice to not only sink heavier than a cement block, but to embrace each and every moment. Replace my internal being with the soaked entities surrounding me. Become one... with the gherkins.

Cutting ahead many paces, I now have washed myself thoroughly, applied a good variety of obnoxious perfumes, and seem to be all-clear of any noticeably pickle or Kaiju related stains. I am the diver, once again, perhaps now packing his large Adidas bags and planning the rest of his night. Wondering why he chose to swim in what may have been the world's largest pickle jar, now quite aware that removing all-encompassing hues of green is hardly as easy as one may have thought.

What I've learned from this Suess-esque experience is simple. Don't do the absurd just for the hell of it. Don't choose strictly on your inclination. Don't always trust yourself with what you're sure may have been a blast for others... because, unsurprisingly, those who prefer to be pickled will have quite the time in a jar.

I don't even especially like pickles, by the way - they're usually very nasty, unless just the right kind. This is not a strange play on my own hunger. How about we call it an abstract projection, instead?

As I sum up my day; my recurring thoughts, as has turned out; I see that nothing, however, in quite in our hands. My dive was planned, my slip was pushed. I have returned, but I have not proven unscathed by my experiences. However, I do not bleed. I only understand.

Knowing that I am no longer in the pool feels comforting. Anything I find myself feeling nostalgic for, or, really, feeling any emotion for, can be sufficiently countered by the honesty of... you're missing stagnant veggies. Anything you'll miss from a jar of stench, surely can be found in a similar, yet far better place.

Looking in the mirror nearby, as I lay thoughtfully, I see my own face in the amber lights surrounding me. Tired from my swim, eager for tomorrow. This face I am bound to shall forever look me back as I rest from another long chapter of my life. The beacon the drove me back to the surface of the bog.

Thus, there is no concern to return. Now I must begin again, with my face - and mind - in tow. 

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