Very sane he seemed to me

Is she allowed to be angry? 

Is has not stopped raining for the past several days.  

After she parked she waited in her car for some time.  Exteriors had a strange hold on her and she stared at the outside of the store, all blue walls and tall, thick panes of glass. The door is also glass and she imagines pressing her hand against it and what this will look like from the perspective of someone inside the store.  People pass by and she briefly questions if emptiness is a commonly inherent quality.  

This is not the first store she has gone to on that day and it will not be the last.  In every one she walks straight to familiar sections and it only takes a few seconds to confirm what she already knew.   Empty.  Less than a week prior this was not the case.  The stand at the front of the store which was well stocked when they first arrived only a few days ago is now empty as well.  This was the same in the last store and it will be same in the next store.  Whether it was imprinted on paper or a piece of plastic, they have all been bought.  

You are frauds and now that this world is even more bereft of true beauty you are all far more sickeningly easy to notice.  There are vermin and pestilence gathering in unison.  It is not even a question of their design or what they are doing with their hands.  She would like for them to ask themselves what they will be doing in a year, even a few months.  Will everything simply be collecting dust?  Will this cumulative work – a collection of thousands of notes, of strings and images, words and inflections – be relegated to the bottom of some stack, a reflection of their overall lack of personality and conviction?  This is the most likely outcome, is it not?  Disingenuous is such a polite word.  The whims of human nature and emotion are a foul thing.  

And there are others, those who only showed up when the weather was fair and now want to cry and beg and share things of such great importance.  When was the last time any of this even crossed their mind?  And once these precious few days pass, will they ever have the time to think about it again?  Isn’t everyone busy with their failed romances and their very important dream jobs and depositing checks?  Shouldn’t we all be planning how we are going to waste the next forty years of our lives invested in things we do not care about?  That is what they are busy doing so why should they waste any of their precious time?  Write out a couple sentences, put your fingerprints on a piece of plastic, watch a bright display light up with a familiar name and once the day is done we can resume our glorious adventure in mediocrity.    

This is not what was intended and it is quite contrary to the virtues she worked so hard to extol and though she deeply understands her own hypocrisy she is unable to change it.  All she is left with are her thoughts and considerations and she wonders how much her newly discovered uselessness is contributing to her sadness.  It is a strange thing to imagine praying but not to actually pray.  She wonders if there is even the slightest possibility of a trade.  One of her.  A billion like her, a billion like the others.  That would be more than fair.  But no, sadly, not today, all deals are final and there are no trades conducted after the toll of that bell.  

There’s a black and white photograph on her coffee table, an insert she did not know she would receive.  She wants to find a frame for it and hang it on her wall, maybe the one opposite the front door.  There is a book on the table next to the photograph and the cover of the book has a picture of a man smoking, a satisfied glint in his eye.  The book chronicles a specific time in this man’s life and where he was for a number of years and what he created.  And what it is that he created during this time and surrounding this time is inside of her and she knows this will never change.  Does this make her current state somewhat inexplicable?

This is an indelible mark; nothing will ever wash it off.  Why is she so angry all the time?  Is she allowed this?  Is this a sin?  It is so much better to be alone rather than look at the disgusting faces of those who are just going to live and die without any questions or any attempts.  Does she hate herself?  This is an excellent question.  Are her feelings deeply contrary to the messages she so holds dear?  

Smooth screen. Beautiful commerce.  Turquoise sweater.  Recorded image.  Jumping.  Laughing.  In the background.  Everything is beautiful for an instant.   This is the real message.  This makes all the aforementioned ugliness disappear rather easily.  She can recognize the hypocrisy in others and herself but this is forgivable, it scarcely matters.  There is pure joy emanating outward.  She brings a glass of wine to her lips and looks over at the person next to her and they both smile and it is genuine.  This is legitimacy and power and beauty.  She receives advice that is far too perfect and though she will eventually take it she is not yet ready to listen.  But this is the way out.  Through.  This is how to let it go.  She has to leave soon.  She looks down at herself and smiles because it is torn. 

While driving at night it was quite a comfort listening to the one with the orange cover.  For a moment it was more affirmative than heartbreaking.  It opened up the same doors to beautiful and strange alien landscapes.  Nothing will ever change this.  She cannot hear the rain against the windshield.  As long as she keeps driving she does not feel as bad.