And this would be a short story of sorts.
I remember, once, when I had my whole life lined out. Maybe I was five, maybe it was in crayon.... but at least I knew where I was going. I wasn't sitting in my empty car, smoking too many cigarettes and having not a clue which road to take.
So what if the garish purple and red weren't even? I knew I was going to be a ballerina, a rock star. I was going to be. I knew at seven pm my father would come home and we would have dinner, then watch TV. Now it's grab your meals when you can, maybe substitute with a Diet Pepsi and a candy bar. No stabilty in a lost world.
I used to know that this is how it is and that's it. You had structure and grammar and finger painting at noon. It seemed like life was more like a worn out novel than anything else. You knew each page and that was okay. What happens to that? Do the pages fall out or the author get sick of it. Or maybe it's just growing up.
Wanting to think that everything is going to be okay.... that's where it seems to stick. The gears that pull everything along like clothes on a line.... they stick at that little hope. And in all the cofunsion, I feel like I'm standing back in Time's Square, watching the trash blows around me, the people a cars rush by so fast while rain slips into my shoes. I feel like I'm caught in the glare of a million lights, yet they're just passing over me searching for the next big thing.
Just another strand of hair in my eye and a wrong turn. Maybe I'll continue bouncing off the walls like a blind robot, until I finally find where I'm going.