How do the ones who know us best become strangers? Who are these people, who see the best in us and bring out our worst? Who are these people, from whom we buck and bray, all the while becoming? We spend so much life trying to get back to a place we can never go again, and once home count the minutes till we can go home. Entitled to call us on the clutter that is our lives while carrying the keepsakes of generations, words which anyone else could say, coming from them cut. They are both the scissors and our source of strength, our secret keepers and the skeletons. They advise unsolicited on which roads to follow and boxes to open, though we know damn well that everything out there is randomized, and hostile. Rev up the rocket ship, leave behind a lifetime of misunderstanding with the only people who ever understood, fly far, far away and never return. Find a mailbox without teeth. Send your love.
Posted by Sir Cucumber at 1:14 PM on Thursday, August 4, 2011