There are those days where I wake up.
There are those days where I wake up and my brother's breakfast coats the dreams and blends in reality.
What truly makes my day does not lie in the false existence of time passing by, yellow exhaust, or cheeseburger billboards, but in the practice of being myself and appreciation of all things remained untouched by man.
There are those days where the curbs of these streets all seem faulty and cracked, unstable pavements taken forgranted by inpatient pedestrians pushing to their occupation.
Man-made, blueprint engineered and crafted with gloves on, half of what I see is constructed in the pursuit of a paycheck.
There are those days where the sting of a bee exudes more beauty than the Downtown Los Angeles skyline; natures pinch to believe in the smaller wings in life.
The blue that we breath is only polluted in absence of beach.
Once-in-a-lifetime waves with no structure retreat after reaching for your feet and there are those days where life seems grey after buses and trains offer you the same seat.
Man-made, adjusted by hand and erected upon unstable pavements,
Yellow street lamps attempt to compensate for the absence of solar energy, harvested, yet untouched by man.
There are those days where the slow and soft seem fast and hard.
My convoluted imagination seeks to be free from speeds yielding to gravity.
There are those days where gummy bears taste better after sex and her scratches seem to compensate for the absence of 700 million things, all man-made, overrated objects than seem lost when the slow and soft feel fast and hard.
In the days where I practice being myself, the pages become planets, my pen the Sun, and my thoughts the convoluted constellation with colliding comets.
What truly makes my day actually happens tomorrow when I wake up to my brother's breakfast well after my dreams have dreamt and I've more than slept past the false existence of mismanaged time.