Life had finally come to the point where truth was obliterated, scattered to the far corners of the earth, like an endangered species of bird that didn’t want to be found; and, no one really had any desire to trek across the wild and harsh conditions in order to find it.
People of the world had come to acquire an openness, an acceptance, of everything. Nothing was exactly wrong, nothing was considered weird, or strange, or outlandish...everything was the norm. Opinions were banned, and if you raised one, well, everyone knew what happened to you then. Compliance, openness, and acceptance were the cornerstones of the society. You couldn’t get anywhere without being bombarded by positive feedback, or the encouraging, empty sounding compliments that everyone felt were needed in order to feel good. The new national concern was feelings. If you broke them, they would break you.
The mother wasn't too many years older than me, her dark hair was shoved into a hasty bun and some loose strands had come undone which gracefully fell around her neck. Her glasses, slightly askew on her nose, gave her a tired look but did a decent job covering up the dark circles under her eyes.
A seat and aisle was a big enough buffer to watch without seeming too interested, so I watched.
The flight was long, and my mother predicted how the baby in the mother's lap would cry from the pressure, how he would make the noises all the rest of us wanted to make. But the baby didn't make a peep.
Halfway through the flight, the mother asked the man sitting between myself and the aisle to hold her baby while she used the restroom. We were in the way back of the plane, so it was only a few steps away. The man was a grandfather age; he was wearing an old band t-shirt and grinned easily.
I like to fall in love with followers; at least, that's what my mother told me. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. A lot of sense.
My best friend, back when I was much younger, was blonde and dressed in Abercrombie and Fitch Aeropostale and Hollister along with all the other girls I ever knew. She curled her hair and began experimenting with makeup and bras, she played music, Kesha I think, loud and began talking about boys which made me slightly uneasy. I began questioning who this girl really was. She took a liking to wearing black skinny jeans and trendy t-shirts, and soon she got swallowed up by a group of girls wearing bras and makeup and black skinny jeans and trendy t-shirts, bobbing their heads to their iPods blaring Kesha.
It was a sour, rainy day. The clouds selfishly covered the sky, spitting angry tears upon anyone that dared to show her face outside. The 4th graders of Wellington Elementary School gathered in the gym, huddled together in one mass, uniform in ill-fitting green and white shorts and t-shirts. Each child had a frown on his or her face, due to the weather and the fact they couldn’t play outside like they usually did for physical education. Ava stood uncertainty among her classmates and shivered as she felt the cold air from the fans above hit her skin. A whistle suddenly blew, and they obediently formed a line on the edge of the basketball court as Mr. Davis, the gym instructor, came to stand in front of them.
That jean jacket attracted her dark eyes every time it graced her with its presence. It wasn’t exactly dark, but it wasn’t exactly light either. It was an in-between shade that captured her full attention every time she saw it. The buttons down the front were always open, except a few that were loosely secured towards the bottom. The shoulder blades that occupied the space underneath the rough denim moved solemnly, only to shift to a new position, but most of the time stayed rigidly still.
She fell in love with that jean jacket. Day after day she would watch. Fall moved to spring, and the jean jacket prevailed.
The jean jacket fell in love with her, but only for a season. A season was enough.
The jean jacket broke her heart; she couldn't get out of bed. Her eyes wouldn’t open, she felt like every time she opened them she saw the jean jacket, the jacket that stole her wind.
My eyes are open before I'm really awake, and I instantly know my alarm is going to go off unless I quickly turn over and shut it off; which I promptly do.
The noise that used to sound pleasant when I was picking out an alarm sound now sounds like a million bells that are welcoming yet another day I don't want or need.
My velvet comforter offers no real comfort as I arise from my bed and cold harsh air bites my pale winter shoulders.
I blindly reach for another layer, anything to keep me warm. Curse these young eyes that in theory are supposed to allow me to see more than two feet, but in reality I can't even see that far.
I flick on the bathroom light, too bright. I put in my contacts, too sharp. I have to shower I have to eat I have to make myself look acceptable (for who, again?) I have to appear awake and I can't forget my tea this time.