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Monday, December 22, 2014

BUT THIS IS 'THE LIFE'

We were young. We bartered our souls for the “life.” A life of sequin tank tops, spiked leather, sharp eyebrows and sharp tongues. The life of many who have fallen and those who have gracefully accepted the fall. Those who have “made it” in the world, surrounded by those who seem to find nowhere in everything; the no one in everyone. We were ignorant of the causation of our portending actions. Our desire to kiss one another, aptly accepting the fall, the passion, the demise of our friendship; we became obtuse, heartless; indolent miscreations.

We joined the multitude the world calls different: the people who have bedazzled the fabric of America; ripping it, using its stars for tattoos above the hip bone, or below the waist line leading toward the curved dark road meant to be observed, opened, envied, and fingered. We are the embouchure that fairies dip their toes in; we are the ambulant rivers inundating minds with our black magic.  We are the mutation in the human genome, the caustic chlorophyl destroying everything the Earth made green. We are the anomalistic fruit, the strange and the unorthodox, the ignis fatui puzzling gazers. The world has labeled us and the world is mocking us. The moment we cower to the world , our minds are metamorphosed into balloons that, in the course of time–pop, but this is the “life.”

This is the “life” of diamond children, finding themselves in the songs made for the wayward sons. This is the life where the pink dollar forces us into the fashion outlets, the shows, the oblivion, the parades; the endless runways. This is the life that mummifies us, consequently, dissecting us in high school anatomy classes; to ascertain the reasons why we vogue, to discover our famed acumen in fashion, our queer idioms; our proficiency in “reading.” This is the life that is administered carefully with a strategy and an agenda to exploit us for profitable gain.

We are the “gay things,” the poster children of religious rebellion; people of servile miens. We are the nomads, and we have become these vagrants because we are losing ourselves. We do not know ourselves anymore, we feel because our strings are being pulled, our minds are being sculpted by unknown hands, so we walk with no direction and live in the underground. The storm still uncovers us, the stores still warrant us, the movies and the shows; the zoo still retain us. We are the flamingoes, with our short torsos and long legs, wings on our hips, our stooped shoulders; our kyphotic model pose, smizing, beautiful, waiting to be plucked like a pink rose. We have been seized; a bounty of souls, our petals have been fashioned, and we wait in long lines behind closed doors, to purchase our own arms.

The world we have so gracefully fallen into has consumed us. We are the seed stuck in the back of its tongue, being tossed around from the left cheek, underneath the bridge of its mouth, between its fangs, until we are spat out onto the infested concrete jungle. We may have signed up for this life, in order to be accepted, to be Instagram famous; exalted on the high of self worship, however, immanently, are we ever satisfied with our perceptions of being the token gypsy, flipping the hair, the attitude, living under the rocks of our dreams ultimately taken by just another, me?

We are robots, an organism with a metallic peel, living in a perplex bipolar realm in the real. We suffer from megalomania; dissimulating ourselves to the public. Is this the life? Is this the meaning of it? Are we all this way? What channel are we on? If this is so, I would like my soul back. I would rather have it haunt me with the smile of a seamstress, simple, yet eloquently fascinated by her work. I am older now and I won’t fall for this anymore.

SOURCE: MUSED MAG

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