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Mini Skirts and Opium

By Monroe | 2008

I'm at the top of a mountain. The canyon below, frozen in its tracks, envies the air with such disdain as to become gravitational and I am standing here with my feet unwillngly planted, screaming into oblivion.

The air is helpless, forced through its life by the hands of God and it, too, envies. Not the earth, but the people. It is an onlooker watching the tantrum. Watching God ignore his children. But the air says nothing because it knows and understands both sides of the story, almost feminine by nature. And all it does is redirect the echoes of my insanity right back into my head, three fold.

We are here for a reason, I believe, but I don't dispute the opposing position because it's that balance which created either perspective. Why are we fighting eachother when insecurity is so easily nurtured back to health? The ego is a cancer.

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