Throw-Back Thursday

Barely edited piece (so bear with me) of poetic prose from high school that I had started two years before I finally sat down to word vomit it finished! Not amazing, but I like the concept. Stay tuned to this piece, I want to refine it in the future.

Simple

Simple is not a word people recognize anymore.

Sure, everyday the two syllabled, six-lettered strip of inky meaning rolls off of the tongue of a human body's corroding vocal chambers, but when I stare outside my tear stained, crusty eye lashed, square of the past and future- my window- I know, no one knows what simple simply is.

Google told me that simple means, “easily understood or done, presenting no difficulty, composed of a single element.”

If simple is only such, then simple is only science hard and soft; never seen through a looking glass that has Windex streaks shimmering on it's flesh from an easily understood yet completely misunderstood "good morning". Completely misunderstood because if someone were to say "good morning" to me today, I do not think I would grant more than a second of time to that someone through a single "good" response and a quick, predetermined smile.

Well, isn’t that simple? No.

I have my manners calculated perfectly into a formula, calculated in to a carefully constructed habit with step one and two and three and forever abiding by the Laws of Society. Though I spend little time, little effort, and little thought to create a picture book of simplicity just like little, complicated society ordered me to do, I find that my thoughts and my actions collide.

So in short, I still do not really get what simple means. Though it stares us in the face, every second, in every way, we are driven by our emotions to stray from our devotion to humanity.

Sorry to age your ever-climbing culture, this fresh, divine piece of innovation that clutters our clutter but if you say simplicity one more time and expect me to believe you as you drive seventy-five in a forty five zone I may laugh myself into a burst of existentialism.

I may not know it now but we will die at the age of 89 or so and too late realize that we have only lived a half-life, an untrustworthy life, a life full to the screaming top with boiling quarter-truths and lazy communications because when simplicity tears off it's mask we pick it up like it is trash and chuck it far away from our manicured suburb so not even our history books can remind of us of what we’re supposed to be.

We complain of unhappiness but it is we who create this complicatedness. Our picture books of simplicity dry dusty on the shelves, perhaps we could take hold of them and rediscover ourselves.

So what is it really, this word “Simple”? Pick up a change and find out.