11:04 a.m. | 2005-11-18
Keep Me In Your Thoughts
We live our lives just like our mother's made our sandwiches. You know what I'm talking about. Those slightly limp, rather under stuffed, even and boring, never anything new, and cut into triangles. Those two stupid triangles which when stuck together make the perfect image of a once whole sandwich but otherwise just look like this mangled situation.
That's us.
The triangle cut, sighing over why we're even here, living half life artists. We're magical at it. We're wonderful at telling lies and making each other believe that we're doing what we want. We won't admit that we never wanted those sandwiches. We won't admit that in fact we had a little hope looking inside that bag each day and not seeing something different.
And we'll all grow up and be happy with the triangles others have cut us into (or we've cut ourselves into) and we'll make those same sandwiches for our children. We wish them to be the happiest they can be and to do all they can, to go the whole distance, and we still give them those little bags with the same things inside. Only by that point we've glazed over how much we hated that thinly sliced bread every day and we've turned it into this sweet 'did it because she loved me' event.
Newsflash: she didn't.
Because she was doing the same thing to you that you're doing to yours.
I wish I could get this out into words. It's not the sandwiches. It's not even the car I drive or the way that it's sunny (not a cloud in the sky in fact) and I can still see my breath. It's not the way that I match or that I don't. It's not the invention or lack thereof -- it's just life I suppose.
I just know that it all came from those sandwiches everyone got as kids. Only not me. My mom never made my lunch.
