The BicycleDear Owner, Writing now is your neglected bicycle. The one sitting amongst a pile of oil containers and tool boxes in your chilling garage. I am rusted along my neck and rim, and my wheels have lost the life-giving air that you once provided me. I feel constant pain as I slowly dissemble. However, the state of my wellness is not what pains me the most. It's the ache of seeing you walk by my every day without so much as a glance. You allow that horrible, roaring beast that you seem to have replaced me with right next to me in this colorless wasteland, as if you wish to have it mock me and induce envy upon me.Why, my preoccupation to allow my infinite isolation to be less agonizing consists of sentimentality. And what else for a bicycle to dwell upon than the adventures it and its owner has endured together; as a force of unity? I remember quite clearly the times you would ride m
An Empty LifeYou go by life day after day.Living rather bland, so to speak.You give yourself excuses to console your regretful thoughts.As the years pass, it's always a different promise:"Once I get away from my parents and go to college, then I'll make something of myself.""Once I get out of this crappy college and get a real house, then I'll make something of myself.""Once I get a better job, oh you betcha: I'm going to make something of myself."But those days never quite come, do they? You just watch the weeks go by,Plans get in the way. You're too busy. You'll just wait a bit longer.And as your years pass, you comfort your agitated mind, continuing your tirade of baseless pardons:"Once I get promoted, you're damn sure I'm going to get out get known!""Once I get out of this little financial crunch, we'll have some fun.""If I can get enough money for retirement, then I'll be free."And gradually, your little excuses start weakening in vigor and optimism. It's changed from "having the
The DayWake up to the day where people will be united.where the thunder of war will be but an indeterminable thud,and the tyrannical wall of prejudice will be buta bump on the road of prosperity.Poverty and famine will be but words of a time lostamong the ages of progress.A child can play on the hard, concrete streetwithout the worrisome shadow of concerned parentshaving to watch their relished gift in fearof an omnipresent threat.Instead of a false mask of protection,worn by the leaders of this enigma of a world,we can actually feel security and nourishmentfrom a sadistic, unforgiving minority.Where one is not enveloped by a plethora ofblatant advertisements, attracting with dancing colors,like an unknowing fly to an electric light.Begging, pleading "Please buy this product witha vague use only applicable to instant gratification."Gradually stripping away the feel ofa natural world, not rendered by the hands of humankind.A wildlife, cleansed of for-profit industry work.