Puppeteering

I went to goodwill to buy a costume. You have to dress up to play the part. In fact, once you put on a costume it’s no longer a part, it’s an entirety. At goodwill we play God; we construct personalities from the racks of dead shedded skin. 

I examined myself in the changing room mirror. I stared at my absurd reflection, astonished. I was a lifebringer. I stood tall in my striped tights, studded leather vest and fedora with its single large mint green pompom and yelled: I am my own creator! Filled with pride, I brought my costume to check out. My creation folded neatly into a bag, I walked out into the heat. The parking lot was dead. I took a deep solid breath, ready to use my new powers of resurrection. I skipped. I danced. I twirled. I leapt across the flat hard asphalt.  

The thermometer in my twenty-year-old Subaru read ninety degrees. I dug through my shopping bag, searching for the fedora. I pulled it firmly onto my head, resting my hands on the steering weel. I reached up one last time, grabbing the pompom to reassure myself it was still there. With a grin, I stepped on the gas. 

My car had terrible speakers, but I blasted my music anyway, letting the bumps bump me. The road wasn't perfect. It was pieced together from little chunks of crushed rock. The waves that carried my music weren't perfect either. It is the pressing notion of onward that corrodes us.