What a thing it is, to never grow tired. It may have never been done entirely, but I can personally attest to small scale wonders of such. Some way, somehow, some things never grow old. Even as flesh and mind does.
Whether a turquoise silhouette cast upon the last bellow of tangerine radiation, or the crisp reflection, studded like diamonds upon the climbing towers towards the untainted blue sky- I shall never grow tired of watching the New York City skyline, as I pass by from the Bronx down yonder towards Brooklyn. I grow even less tired of it when witnessed on a cool, spring day.
Likewise, I shall never grow tired of rooms with music, singing and dancing. Particularly if the serene chance arises to watch a beautiful young woman sway sensual and sincere, eyes closed and voice marching towards the ceiling, as if it were to have force enough to tear the roof from the walls. I shall also never grow tired if such a being would choose to dance with me, though it still scares me shitless.
My daughter’s laugh could, and I firmly believe should echo through the halls of eternity without a soul growing weary. Tired is void from my mind when it comes to that.
No need to say it. I know already. It is no longer morning. You say, “how could I have the nerve to even go on with a falsely titled claim?” But fret not, I anticipated such. And I urge you to remember that morning is relative. Particularly after the long stretch of days I have just sat down from. And particularly on a Sunday. As such are Sundays for.
Because it is far too easy to grow tired in this world. And it may be bias speaking, but I dare say more than ever. Frustration is hardly a whim in a civilization that visually consumes some formulated genre of humans viciously bickering about agendas without importance. Even easier still, to know that the tag of reality is given to such programming.
Without lifting a finger, I and many that I find myself spending time with can grow tired of crowded bars with pushy people. Prostituted radio singles from hapless human puppets only work to boil anger without even turning on the gas. The energy no longer exists to bribe my way into a conversation with a person so lost in image that they’d forgotten that a human being lives underneath all that heavy makeup and overpriced clothing. And I’m far too removed from my collegiate thespian days to be able to feign interest in someone who is hardly even interested in being alive at all.
To prove it, an anecdote. I was once away in a southern state known for rehabs, retirement homes and beach bars with excessive consumption. Mutually through a traveling companion, I found myself feeling it necessary to try and drum up conversation with the generally uninterested twenty something blonde that was there. A few minutes in character went well enough. Then I asked her about her music choices. What followed was a rapid ascension to yelling loud enough for half of the very crowded bar to be able to hear me almost violently verbally abuse her first listening choice. I won’t say who, but the name sounds almost like ‘dust bin fever’.
She left the first chance I stopped to catch my breath.
And I dare say damn near all of us have grown weary of a world always trying to sell something, whether it is consciously acknowledged or not. Especially when in the façade of claiming to be the hero messenger of vital information and worldly goings on. That is very likely to be the reason most folks began to drum up their own, made from rumor and half-truths. But I am not recently of such a position. I’ve been like this since an internship years ago working in one of those massive and famous media conglomerates based in the heart of Manhattan. I won’t reveal which one, because I am near certain I had to sign some sort of something promising not to talk shit about the company.
But my apologies. We shouldn’t be going on and on about the strife of what is and isn’t, or what should be. Especially on such a beautiful day. And if we do, as we’ve already done, we should not end there. Because we’re not here for the easy way to do things. No ma’am. We’re here for the right way, or at the very least, the quest for such a stance. Because damned be the bastard that only contributes in way of saying what is wrong. We’re here to find out how to make things right.
So… any ideas?
It’s alright. I’ll try and go first.
I don’t believe it is all about tuning out and ignoring the predicaments that plague a life. And such woes cannot be given a value more than it deserves. Emotionally, especially. Temper tantrums have not gotten anyone anywhere good, and I don’t care what president, politician or poet has said or acted otherwise. Get mad, sure. But foot stopping isn’t even accepted from children.
Rather, it is about weighing out the moments you can at very least reach for bliss. It could and is being suggested that maybe, just maybe, the long list of global woes and worries would have a better time working themselves out if more folks would dance when they felt the urge. If we all were to go boldly into redemptive experience when opportunity strikes, we might find ways to make molehills of mountains. And excess is as bad as absence, if you can no longer recall why you act in a way at all.
Hold the door for others more. Make a phone call instead of typing, or better yet look right into the eyes of the conversation. Go on the first date, then you can think about the second and third. Read more. Sing more. Make love, if you get the chance and a willing participant. Go for a walk. Let a cool breeze waltz through the window and through your bare toes.
And laugh. Loud. Often. And never because you think you have to. There are few things worse in the world than artificial laughter.