Hey Man

Listening to the voices is exhausting. These days for most, listening is an art. I'm trapped in a bubble. Pop it and watch the beautiful people squeal. They'd squirm leaving squishy studded beams with enough power to warm the other coast. The one where reality exists unapologetically enduring puffs of cookie cutter crispness.

Why we corn pickin', cow tippin' pop drinkin', morally driven nice rude ones choose to roam amongst the shiny objects seems rhetorical, right. Sand, surf, sun....beautiful people in, on and with beautiful toys. Silly Nat.

Now listen. Shh....you should be listening. This may take a while.

That little obnoxious sound you hear is you. Dear gods, I hope you can still hear it. Your soul is calling, pick the hell up. Communicate. We do live in the age where you'd have to most likely orbit the planet to get away from all the ways eyes are hearing you. They may even be out there too.

If I am thinking about you, you know. I'll send some random text signed with a fun fact or wanderlust declaration after I just threw a dart at the map. People stay with me. They teach me, excite me, pinch something giving the voices just enough time to whisper their lesson. We're all teachers of some kind. We all hold within us secrets laced in experience Vicki can't put in her semi-annual sale.

Exhausted feels good. It means you've kept your soul.

No you can't buy me a drink. Man.

Tell me something new. Enlighten me. Open your mouth to educate those around you. Shut up long enough to pay attention. Experience enough to inspire uncensored realness on all coasts.

Where has all the drive gone.

You have a degree. Congrats it takes real effort to be stupid these days.

I can tell how intelligent you are by the way you take care of your body, how long it takes you to converse, the time you waste doing the things you love. You can't fake conversation but you can fake an orgasm. Tell me again women are inferior to men....

Stand alone until your so comfortable the only crowded room you enter is a candy store of intellect.

Sure, by all means, follow the masses, shun the offensive, pun the lethal, sit because someone else had a dream pretending it's alright because their mission matters. Slowly age with uncontainable beliefs although you wear the same hat, turning up for the same beat, confirming history's record of repeating itself.

Tell a lie simple enough for long enough and it becomes the truth.

This is not a booty call. This, therefore, is a problem. Just turn on the radio. Within seconds you're guaranteed to hear melodies all expressing the same thing. Use me. Better yet, I'll like it. If only us common folk could make it rain for turning it up. This is exactly what we need to turn down for.

Be real. Actually look around to process the images voices. Be everything they tell you not to be. Watch out for conformity masked in unique overlays. Don't buy the fabric. It itches anyway.

A friend asked me what I meant when I told him I wanted the simple things. This version of simple is rather complicated. Excuse the voices in my head.

I want to be exhausted.  And I want you to come with me.