Sunday, September 11, 2011

The Scarlet Letter.

One shouldn't give out too many chances of being called Freud's wet dream. One should just smoke one's n-th consecutive cigarette post one's third glass of the rather strong Long Island Iced Tea and be in the corner.
But that's the trouble with one!
One can hardly do with just keeping to the corner.

Midst some dancing nights, pouring alcohol, puffs of cheap drugs and some more magic, one might lose oneself. It's pretty darn easy too. One doesn't have to be excessively bright, talented, lucky, unfortunate, pretty, ugly or anything else to feel happiness or pain. One just needs to be human. 
But what does one have to be to experience guilt? One would think integrity; but that's not it alone. It can't be.
Then again, one laughs when one is called superhuman; for apparent levels of endurance. The laughter primarily roots from the simple fact that one knows that one is hardly sub-human, if anything. One is just generally calm in life. About life.
Ah. But I digress.

The being in the corner doesn't work with one. I don't see anything wrong with that. It isn't about the spotlight each time, one says; But is it ever about the dark? There's enough darkness in the world. One sees the dark and makes no guns about rubbishing the entire facade of light at the end of the tunnel. Instead of sticking to the cigarette post the LI iced tea, one shifts to other spirits. One would think that the memory of the night would bind together all the people who were a part of it. Only, the memory is vague; fading even.
But just like that, one sees the need of the Scarlet Letter to be etched on one. Forever.
Just like that, one sees everything change.

Now one lives with unnecessary flirtations, frivoulous smiles and some other unmentionables. 
But more importantly,
one lives with the realization that one should just smoke one's n-th consecutive cigarette post one's third glass of the rather strong Long Island Iced Tea and be in the corner.
And while one is at it, one should keep one's heart and mind closed;
along with one's legs.


From Drafts

I sometimes miss being in unrequited love to text them to overthink their text to romanticize every moment to actually dream about them...