Yellow sticky notes.
We all have wounds and scars we must bare. Some scars go deeper than others. Some wounds heal faster than others. But all we’re left with is a body riddled with unseen scars, unseen wounds of young and old. You’re left to carry them forever and can’t even cut them out yourself because all you’re left with is a scar procured by oneself, a cyclical event matched by an Infiniti mirror. Left with the scars to carry on in existence eternally to gracefully open and close when it pleases like a hundred songs on repeat all at once, they swirl and muster like a symphonic masterpiece of pain.
Yet, despite this symphonic pain, we endure. We carry out our daily lives with routine and coffee and desks and paperwork and pens and sticky notes and burgers and beer and wine and weed and pain killers and heartbreak and lack of vulnerability and immense lack of gratitude and fear and doubt at every corner we catch a fleeting glimpse of a dream or a lover or that one who got away or that vacation or that raise or that one who’s more miserable than us so we feel better for an instant but don’t realize how long an instant or a moment truly is until it’s gone despite how often we look for these moments and spend an entire lifetime worried about having regrets that we end up with regrets after spending a lifetime avoiding that by doing all the wrong fucking things that don’t make us happy because we don’t know what fucking happiness is and we don’t know what Love is and we don’t know what anything truly is until we lose it and lose it and lose it and then learn what that thing is and then become more aware of all the things wrong with the desks and the paperwork and the coffees and the desks and happiness and love and pain and people and booze and painkillers and carelessness and carefulness and awareness and all we want is to be young and innocent again because way back then none of this shit mattered.
All that mattered were trees and skinned knees and laughter and running and playing and imagination and love and happiness.
Maybe I understand now what it’s all about but probably not because of the cyclical nature of learning and loving and fucking and fighting and hating and freedom and peace and happiness and desk jobs and those god damn yellow sticky notes.
