Conflicts.

I don’t blame you for getting lost, even when you left me stranded here with nothing on but three ounces of courage, the ever-growing weight on my shoulders and a splash of tears accentuating my cheekbones. I know it’s hard to find your way through these lands, and the neon signs glow much too bright at night when they try to corrupt your soul. Drink this. Watch this. FEEL this. So I don’t blame you, ’cause when you look at them, they drag you in and spit you out, and when you manage to look away, you wander hopelessly in the dark.

Sometimes I get lost as well. Sometimes I’m a good kid, following the path laid out and eating all my meals. Sometimes I’m a decent man, taking care of the people around me and walking around the puddles in my way. But sometimes I’m just a boy spending his time buying records instead of reading. And sometimes I’m just a boy staying in bed when the sun is out. And sometimes I’m just a boy only looking out for my own corrupted interests. And sometimes the neon signs get me. And sometimes I want them to.

And I don’t blame you. For dreaming of other planets. For singing lullabies to the stars. For letting go when the going gets tough. For escaping life. I don’t blame you.

But sometimes I wish I did.

Boy doing dishes.

Silence. Dimly lit room and
silence. Boy is standing

there in silence. In Boy’s
own part of the world.

When you move in close,
you realize Boy’s insistent

scrubbing the dishes. Slow
and meticulous. Boy does not

leave leftovers to rot. Boy
makes sure there is nothing

left unscrubbed. Most of the
light is cleanliness reflecting

Boy’s handiwork to the room.
If only the world could be kept

this clean, is what Boy would
think. But thoughts have a weight

and a humming about them. There
is only silence in this room. No

thoughts to weigh down on Boy.
There is only water and soap and

instruments. And Boy to create
symphony in silence.