Painting the roses red.
Lost with words
By Jonathan Rosenthal
Why is it we, or I constantly find the world on display?
A person comes too close in contact to your personal bubble of reality and alterations must be made.
We all sit watching others watching us.
Mere spheres of existence that tangle, wined, and intertwine, yet to each their own is their reality, their existence, their world as far as they can ever know it.
I find airports to be the most awkward and surreal of such cross roads.
Everyone wearing their cultural masks, the human zoo on display, in which you must find where you fit.
I walk the escalator of the Fiji int. airport for four hours, exhausted, delirious, and unsure of how 5am local time corresponded with my previous location.
And this is all I can think about.
The fake smiles,
Conversation for conversation’s sake or maybe to try to drown out the voice in everyone’s head shrieking
“Hkmsi fgnsi djgi…. I hate mother!*&%$#^ airports.”
And this building, our prison. An entire apparatus designed for waiting. People come here for one reason and one reason alone.
I walk the shops thinking I might find something I didn’t know I needed. Maybe come across a pretty face I’m not yet to blankly greet.
Families scramble frantically to maintain order within their sphere, unpacking, repacking, making room for last minute trinkets, distracting young ones from the harshest truth,
That, no this doesn’t become more enjoyable with time you just learn how to silence your self for fear of judgment passed by others,
And yes you will spend more or less the rest of your life doing this or finding your self under similar paralleled circumstances.
We live in a scary and bazaar time.
We waste time,
We race time,
We keep time,
We make time.
We go places to take photos instead of just taking in the moment.
“I just want a photo of me in front of the Hollywood sign!” a voice from a not so distant memory says, as I cringe in disgust.
Who are we trying to impress? And why? Proof is nothing in the reality of a moment. Looking at a photo of yourself on the great wall will never bring back its wonder.
A photo will never describe the way the air smells,
Or how the tattered path weakens your ankles.
We spend so much time fitting in, critiquing, and criticizing.
Critics who without all of this are nothing.
Take away your plans, your qualifications, your hobbies, your religion, your friends and family, who are you?
What are you?
A phenomenal occurrence, poetically, yet randomly woven particles of earth and matter.
Cause in the face of reality, nothing matters except what your place as important in your mind.
Our world is dying; we’re running out of places to hide and things to distract us from our morbid presence.
So we dig deeper,
Create clutter out of inexplicable beauty,
Create new words and methods to segregate and divide us,
New nightmares and things to fear,
Spend and waste lives, resources, and time in the search of explanation.
All you need to know is you live, you die, and somewhere in the middle you may feel something real, might experience something of true beauty.
Words dis-empower experiences for when you come face to face with something you’ve never seen, something of which you do not posses the adjectives to describe, like a child discovering the world,
So you cry for no other way to embrace the moment,
those tears and that beauty is what every moment of life should feel like.
A world which does not attempt to entrap and harness things we lack the language to recreate.
When tears and laughter fall like rain and sunshine.
When we leave explanations behind and merely understand that everything is worth embracing and no one has the right to deny that experience for others,
Because through others you are not truly living.