(Once again, by Línda Vanesa Perla #ThanksLily)
When you take the most nuanced things and attach the world to them the weirdest thing happens. There is nothing quiet equivalent to the construction of meaning behind something that may not have any meaning—ever.
She stands alone on the Train. Her head is stuck in her book. Like literally her head looks like it is stuck in her book. There is not space between her and the page. No space between her and the letter. No space between that world and her own. They live together. Now, I watch her wondering what world we’re living in. I mean by watching her I am in some part partaking in the world that–
Slap the body of your nature and call her your bitch. There is no other explanation to the willingness to go at the speed of light other than life having rockets at it’s back. The way cola splashes against the sides of a can is not the way the penguins live. We wear tuxedos and we dance around the cramp quarters of a green bootle. Bear tear, tear that fallen sigh from the lips of the leaf on the end of your nose–
A burst of air escapes the carbonated drink before you can grace the lip with your aroma. I despise soda. Hypocritically I drink it to ensure the hatred is an ever present force. If I were to relinquish the act of drinking soda I may fall into the hole of amnesia. Meaning I may forget what it is I hate about it and ultimately be convinced or allow myself to believe that it’s not all that bad. But it is. It is the worst. It is horrible. It makes me want to cry. Not really. Soda means nothing to me. Nothing.