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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required We lie most to those we love, mostly little things. Last night, my best friend called about her boyfriend being stand-off-ish. The usual, relationship merry-go-round nonsense. I told her whatever I could: distraction is good, get a drink, go out, go walk, play hard to get. The thing is, once he'd made a pass at me while she was ordering us all a round at her favorite bar. (Questionable morals to say the least) I guess I lied to her. I never said a thing. Because when I was young, the white-picket fence surrounding the garden next door held dying orchids. I wanted to go water them, to sustain them, to prolong something that was beautiful. But there was a no-trespassing sign, and Momma told me to stay away, to never break the law. She said interference was useless, that flowers would die just fine without my help. I forgot about them in a minute. I went out to play in the sandbox. I was young. Now here I am, older. Well aware of the speed of change, how fast things come, how quickly they go. I'm starting to think of this ebb and flow as re-arrangement. Metaphysical circles. Whatever it looks like, whatever it is, I can only manipulate the feelings, not the nature. Not the flow. Reality never changes, never grows older. Is there a battle between change and stagnation, right and wrong, light and dark? I don't think so. I think they're only mirrors, that without one, the other could never be seen. Like telling your chubby girlfriend she never looks fat. Or your mother, you're doing this, when you're really doing that. Or your father, you took care of whatever the hell it was, when you didn't. We all do that. Even honesty is sometimes reciprocated with dire consequences, I'm convinced.
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