Curious about the Things Inside Things


I am curious about things. And what about the things inside things?

There are balloons. And then there are balloons that fly high in the sky as an emblem of freedom and spirit.

Visible for only so long, they become smaller and smaller and then, gone. Do things disappear when they have freedom and spirit?

The quietest noise in the world is the sound of millions of snowflakes joining their family members on the ground. Are they happy or sad? Or terrified? What does it mean that they all melt together?

I am bothered by my time spent last weekend. I wonder why.

When I was a kid, I went through a phase of kleptomania. Scissors, playing cards, matches, pennies. It wasn’t about the things I took, it was about the secret of having took such things.

I have matching freckles on my inner knees. I think they are placed there by a higher order. How else would it happen that two freckles, unrelated, would be in the exact same spot on opposite legs?

I hate coconut so much I say I’m allergic to it. I say my throat puffs up and I die. Once, someone told me I had just unknowingly eaten coconut! Do I not trust people to respect my opinions? I wonder what coconut tastes like.

Boiling water, it angers me. Where does it go? What does it say about things reacting to heat? They will disappear? Or entirely change form.

I am truly allergic to pineapple.

I sometimes think I have too many things. Far too many things. I don’t see them anymore as things, just competition for space.

I’m bothered by my time spent this weekend.

I’m sorry to all the people I’ve hurt in my life, all the people I’ve left. I have freedom and spirit, you see.

I’m bothered by my time spent every weekend.

I collect rocks. Except, they aren’t rocks. They are containers that hold the most wonderful, spectacular narratives of my life. Narratives I tell myself when I feel lonely. Through them, I commune with my more knowing, less curious self.

I don’t know what would happen if I ate pineapple. I’ve never eaten any.

Sometimes, I swipe my fingers along the floor and gather bits of unseen dust. Is it possible to make something from nothing?

No one says I look like someone famous. But a couple times a year, someone will say I remind them of a family member. It is a burden to be in so many families, especially around Thanksgiving. I wonder which family I would choose.

I’m not really allergic to pineapple. I just don’t trust you to respect my opinion.

I have two more little sprigs of hair on my left big toe. They are adorable. If they were humans, they’d be librarians. Why aren’t there any on my right big toe?

There are times, randomly, when I smell grape bubblegum in the air. It’s my childhood saying, “Hi, there, I’m still in here.” Remembrance of things past.

I love weekdays. I love working. I feel so embarrassed about that, why is that?

One insect I can handle. Two insects, maybe it’s an insect couple? Romantic. But add a third insect and I start looking for the Apocalypse. A single insect is the difference between romance and the end of the world.

Quietest thing in the world is a snowflake family reunion. They might have been happy, or sad or terrified, but once together, they create snow.

Balloons caught into a tree branch are there forever, or at least long enough to be forgotten individually. They fumble, wave and eventually deflate. Any freedom or spirit they once had collapses and they become part of the tree, part of the scene.

In all this abstract, there is a simple truth that I know for sure: I don’t ever want to be part of the scene.



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