Muse 82: Birds

found via brightdawns

I hated her, I hated how she seemed to act as if she represented mankind, humanity, as if her thoughts were running along some frequency that everyone - but me - was logged onto. It's freedom we deserve, she always said, we shouldn't be oppressed with this government bullshit. Sometimes I would tell her to just be grateful, be aware of how much freedom we actually got in America, but she snapped at me, quoting from the terrible book about being some sort of flower. "We have what we have," she snapped, "and so what's the point in comparing it to others?" She always made more sense than I wanted to credit her for, so I let the argument slide. And I told her that I didn't want to talk about it anymore, so she dropped the topic and turned on her television and we flipped through all 500 channels. 

Muse 74: Got Milk?

found via jawshbates

Milk isn't necessary, you know. It's liquid cream that contributes to nothing but fat and bones. I don't know why my parents made me drink it when I was young; they had me drinking organic whole milk so fatten me up like a cow, but as I grew older milk felt thick and filmy in my throat. So I switched to two percent and noticed that it ran much more smoothly, it was easier and less complicated. When I got to middle school, I noticed that the girls around me were drinking 1%. At first I hated it, it tasted like water and I thought I might as well buy 2% and mix it myself, but I grew used to the change in high school and stuck to it. The thought of going back to 2%, or dare me - whole milk - was too much for my throat to handle, so I stayed with 1% until someone introduced skim milk. This was the type that wouldn't put weight on me at all, and I loved it because everything was easier. Then college came and I realized that I didn't need milk at all - they offered soy in the dining halls. Within a month, I kissed goodbye to skim... 1%... 2% ... my virginity, and the thought of ever being whole again.

Muse 13: Secret Garden

There is a place everyone wishes they could go to, somewhere secret and unknown, that has a path so they won't get lost. Alice has been there. Peter lives there. It is a land that we have only dreamed of seeing. Lost has myriad implications that will never mean that same thing once; like a fire that cannot be photographed identically. In a frenzy of definitions, I wonder: How can I feel good when I'm lost, on my own, knowing that the only route is a carved direction filled with simplicity. And yet how can I feel so bad when I'm lost, on my own, knowing that no one will ever find me again. The path feels so soft and earthly underneath my feet, where the dirt slowly eats away at my calloused soles to expose the gentle, baby skin. The wet morning dew kissing my sore, blistered red feet is the only thing that can hurt me. I think I will continue running, no matter what "lost" has in store for me.