Cynical

I don't need to help her become cynical. She'll figure it out on her own. Eventually. It's the world we live in, and the culture in which we're immersed. The do or die. The rich or perish. The use or abuse. The laugh or choke. The cry or weep. It's a left or a right. But the right is right.

It's the right turn down Fowster Avenue. The world pans down a narrow perspective to the end of the street. It's propped up by the lining trees on the left and the scrubs on the right, shielding the inhabitants of the row-houses from the hustle, bustle, and sadness of the avenue. That's what we call it. The avenue. It can stand alone. And if I rant on its misfortunes, she will certainly age generations and regress into fear and disappointment. She would stop making the right.

Would she even make a left? Or would she continue walking straight?

I ask myself those questions everyday as a grudgingly veer my hips to the right. To the avenue. To the burning asphalt in the dead of winter. The trees are growthless. The soil is lifeless. The safety is behind a shrub. Only safe because your eyes are shielded from the avenue. The avenue. I keep saying it. Like its a bad thing. Like its the choke and weep. So why do I never do and laugh and go straight? Go left?

Maybe because I care for her. Maybe because I care for him. Maybe because I care for them. The ones that have walked the avenue, walk the avenue, and will walk the avenue. Or maybe I do it because without me no one would think of walking the avenue. I prevent it from becoming Nagasaki by not mentioning its true name and its true nature.

"To the avenue. Promise that you will never kill those that cross your path, as we preserve your existence as the shield of cynicism for the young, and the unfortunate reality of life for the wise."

It's only a matter of time before the avenue graciously declines my plea.


The above is an original piece of work by the author of this page. Any attempt to reproduce it will be deemed plagiarism.