“And you say I’m such a cliche
I can’t see the difference in it anyway”
-“The Sound” by the 1975
I bounce, I breathe. I am alive, glowing and swirling through the world. Such wonder, it’s a gorgeous world, isn’t it?
He’s such a naysayer- in that snide laughter, I hear his disdain. Can’t the world be a marvel? Can’t I gape with innocent eyes as the spires scrape the skies and the lakes reflect the russet sunset?
My glasses may be rosy, but shame and anger have the same heat, and it isn’t nearly as pretty a shade. He’s cursing, but I’m dancing, though I’d like to stop; just a moment, it would only take one moment, and then naive pleasures would rule my world without him.
You should be different, he insists. You shouldn’t go along, like a sheep.
Maybe I love it- the vitality that pours off humanity can be my addiction, my vice. Maybe that alone is worth my time, worth my love.
He starts again, but I’m exasperated now. Frustrated words roll like water down my back, leaving no mark. They make no difference. Passion is never a cliche.