On those days where the sun doesn’t seem to set and that box of teabags seems endless, where you find the will to be cruel to nature, to be true to the ones you love, to throw it all up in the incendiary to pattern a better paternoster grin at those who tend to reach for a grimace when colloquialisms won’t do.
We all have some bread to butter, we all have some secret misery to stamp out. We have some stories that aren’t worth telling, but we tell them anyway. We waste our lives just the same as each other; grotesquely do we transmogrify, grotesquely telling the world we are something we are not, whilst drinking a cup of tea and mulling over that next, that new-in sports game making the tabloids feel as though they can see.
We’ll need more than bariatric whims and appetites to make the red glow misfit the everyday cordial. Personally I take mine with lime, though I know a man down the street who takes his bitter - we could split columns and resurrect small rodents with the differences we encourage. You couldn’t spot us from each other waist down, we just have all that humour kept up top, ready to unbutton never for unleash we shall not, but keep two grips on the ashen goo: the nerve we always station with, we station alongside that wit of which we choose to prove, that embellishment satire which takes us to roads less travelled on carts mostly broken.
Born from humble upbringings as we tell all our friends, we are the riders of dregs and totalled bishops, though we never crash. We are the holders of such wisdom, of such pride in fortitude, of such a torn life woven to get us right on even tracks or even so much as placid to events held together by the ends of chewing gum and on boardroom thumbtacks. We relinquish so we can state the cost of the grain with confidence, we relax to constrict and throw muscles over the paleontological fence - we have guerdons to assume; positions to overthrow. We have heavy shins, we have teeth of metal plates and rubber guards between our legs so as to keep from involuntary stress.
We throw arrowheads, beads, amulets, and lockers out the door to make way for a more modern type of affixation. We don’t have time for that drab, hackneyed, overdone; we have dress appointments to get to with important tailors behind closed curtain-style blinds whom we meet with; we are salesmen, we are the crux of an evanescent existence, and we sometimes hide behind curtain-style blinds because it makes us feel good, but more importantly because it encourages change in a reflexive universe.
We deduct the bloodshed caused from the rodents we kill right off of our quarterly tax bill.
We decide to claim the ticket, fulfil the life of endlessly questionable living. We brave the hideout miasma better than most to find a satori at home, or better yet, a roshni when we turn to face God - for those that do, most do not, not because they have an ignorance but because those whom remember the life of having lived so vividly tend to forget the important things; they have sacrificed their choices and their atonement for those of others.
We all have bread to butter. Get down to the goatee in the styles you choose; see where our spirits all align. Sell a ticket to buy the next ride.
Bon voyage
Written by Piers Vivash