Boys Will Be Men

(another vignette from the daily writing log; based on a series of dreams I’ve had this week)

I saw a skeleton, lightly jogging down my street. I slowed to let her pass, and she smiled at me. She said: “Black is the color of mystery, of seeking. It’s not on our rainbow, because it is a self outside the spectrum.” I told her I didn’t know what all that was supposed to mean, but that I’d share it all the same. Immortalize ignorance in novel significance until the day of dawning came. 

Earlier than this, I dreamed. I had slighted Anubis, and the god was determined to crack down on me. I had eaten the fruit filled plesantry of a pastry before I entered the realm of oblivion. It was a peach I’d been commanded to leave be. Somehow, I’d forgotten, staring death and all his friends down while my comrade in anarchy bid me to flee from resurrected toots sweets who gave chase with cannibalistic intent. And, of course, I’d left my pants somewhere. Finding them, halfway through the flee, I pulled them on as we ran and dared you ask the adage, who wears the pants between me and you? It’s obvious. We both do. Welcome platitudes of the English language to the KNEW Generation. He was raised by a woman alone who shatters glass windows. And, I reckon, most days, I raised myself. So we are on equal footing. Black shoes. Scuffed, and worn, and brand new. 

Boys will be men and so the pictures they see could be sacred text. Or we could just continue to live the life on “Repeat.” 

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