The Facade We Wear
In a fast-paced city, different quirks, table manners, and traumatic events are thrown into one pool to chase pipe dreams or disappear. I walk through crosswalks and bike paths, trying to decide when I should throw myself on the concrete to see if anyone would acknowledge my existence. But being so stuck in my minded ideologies to move here, I realize I left an unbaked part of myself behind, clueless and unanswered. Everyone I thought I knew ended up pulling endless scarves out of their pants like a hack magician leaving me to question my judgment on who gets to know the exact number of floors up to my apartment and whose bare ass gets to touch my toilet seat.
Tonight, I woke up from a dream where my antagonist was just getting ready to swing an axe on my head and use it for firewood with a smile on their face, and I felt criminals just made it out of my front door before I could hear it close. Turning over to look at my clock, I see only 20 minutes left before I have to rise and join the rat race to my dissociated headspace, all forced upon me by the higher power of those called Mom and Dad.
All of the clothes in my closet are made to appear as I have options for every event, day, and season when I only wear the same shirt and pants. Socks can be worn for three straight days, depending on where you walk and where you place your wet feet. Underwear is always in rotation sometimes, two or three a day.
I allocate time to picking my mask for the day and try to trick myself into believing the game of Eanie Meanie will continue with what you started with. This morning, I landed on masking sadness.
Some days are different, but my outfit relies on the game. The mask varies from bad breath, lack of deodorant, self-confidence, opportunism, or interest. These aren't really masks either - these are just the color of my socks and the last put down, I say to myself before I walk out the door. Once I have skipped my front steps, my weight pushes me to almost crush a poodle who enjoys relieving herself on my trash can. Some excess recashades off the plastic and onto my shoes. She and I have developed a beautiful morning routine.
I route to the cafe, where I get my berry assortment and cranberry muffin to wash down with coffee from a can. Erupting with nitrogen to cut costs when, after doing the math, it just costs more.
Floating heads behind homemade gigantic chocolate chip cookies wrapped in layers of webs and fake fish on display in cancer ice bark orders to each other as they watch you bite into their pride and joy with a smile.
Taking my final ascend into society, I'm met with the hum of the city. Every bodily function, dispute, engine, and cigarette smoke are gathered and thrown down the stairs in an attempt to create a symphony. But let us all hop in the public marathon, where we walk amongst sheep, murderers, infectants, and imposters to drive our world further into oblivion.
My driver's license has expired for over three years, so I am a coward. I am a minutia of the undocumented and unbothered, only called upon when I'm not contributing. And if I can get my hands on a pick from the kennel and simply ask, "Who are you?" to be unsatisfied with their answer or their truth, I'd be fulfilled.
