To almost seven billion people,

On a caustic note

It’s just hard as fuck. It’s like the only point to living all the way through a life is to prove you can handle an unfair amount of disillusionment. Why don’t we get it right more often? A few thousand years to refine the DNA and people are still fucking up; leaving families, spiraling through blind addiction, micromanaging, over indulging, and last but not least, falling into patterns of complacency with unsettling ease. The fireworks escaping the trees behind me are nice. Weekends like this are nice. But what the fuck is nice. Who wants nice? A lot of people do, and it’s too bad. And it’s not all their fault. So much of the social infrastructure in our country is a joke of a maze. An unfortunate, inescapable loop embedded in every level of the socioeconomic strata. Dysfunction in perception, dysfunction in conduct, dysfunction in interpersonal interaction, people spend lifetimes chasing “nice.”

Nice is the stability that everyone deserves, but so few find. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe they wait to discover it and years slip on, decades pass like water between pontoons. And, if you’ve ever seen water glide through the space between pontoons, you know that it goes rather submissively. If you don’t get out on the water much, then think driving by cornfields along the freeway. And, if you don’t live in the Midwest, I don’t know something quiet and fucking constant, almost unnoticeable.

The time just slides by. The older you get the deeper you go, door after door, every door you go through makes it a little harder to remember the room you were in a few doors ago. What’s the worst part? You can’t ever go back to a room you’ve been in previous; you can never be in two rooms at once. All the while you’re vaguely aware of the shit piling up in each room, some of it you take with you, sometimes you leave it and it appears in ghostly incarnations of rooms you eventually get to that resemble skeletal imprints of the previous rooms. Wow, what a ramble. I swear I’m not that introspectively fucked up/depressed. The point is, all those rooms you go through, fucking knock down walls, stay sharp, image everything, paint ‘em bright colors, get drunk in ‘em. It’s just life, and if you can’t smile then what’s the point. That goes for everyone. Shoot.

Encouragingly,
Miss Lucy