All The Time Awake

Many moments pass in which I try to imprint this particular feeling or that particular event somewhere on the plane of my soul, wishing my soul were a plane and I could never forget, never let the significance or beauty fall away like it seems to do. I feel more like I am reading a book, a novel that romanticizes my every mundane move with articulate language and by simply including each normal detail as if it weren't also happening to everyone else. Everyday is course correction, talking to ourselves like we were teaching a child how to maneuver the chaos and savor the good. I never have had dreams of traffic, though, if I did one night I think that might do me over. We are always in the stuff. Everywhere each is moving forward at high speeds incased in such easily damageable shells, heavy with precious cargo, late and speeding, tired and distracted, ready to be where we are going. When we land, we soon do it all over.

The day my innocence was over was the day I learned the word monotony. It came from our literature, fifth grade reading material my favorite primary school teacher was getting us through aloud, a sort of calming tool after recess. We'd bounce our legs and mess with the pencils inside our desks while listening to the voice we heard for more hours of the day than we'd spend with our parents. I wish I could remember the book. He read past the word, a few sentences, and stopped, defined it for us, then continued, leaving us--those of us who weren't tortured and distracted by what would later be considered the ADHD epidemic-- scathed and old.

We never really learn to escape tedium. Slowly stress and semi-manic concerns are added to us, each with its own consequence for disobedience or tardiness... or worse: mistakes. I haven't figured out if the good becomes more real and beautiful as each straw is added to our backs.... as each wrinkle added to our face, each scar to our flesh. Perhaps beauty is more beautiful when coupled with youth and naivety. Then it is so easy to enjoy, but even more easy to take for granted. But it must also grow with age, with experience... with hurt. We do not function in or understand time when good was good before bad. Bad is how we know her converse. Pain is how we know pleasure. Maybe monotony is why I dream.