I want to envelope myself in the smoke and dissipate into thin air along with it. Why does it get to enjoy the tranquility of spreading itself across molecules while I sit here, a fleshed out sack of organs and blood.
I am no sentient being. Most days I spend assured of the notion that I am, in fact, just another brick in the wall. A zombie, cursed to repeat the same steady death blow to my human psyche. Work, parent, fuck, eat, shit, piss, shave and shower.
Not necessarily in that order. Not necessarily every day. But the point is made. Is it a life worth living or a lifeless living?
This drip, slow and purposeful; a slow torture on my dreamy aspirations.
It isn’t to say I don’t find myself feelings the undercurrents of pleasure in the day to day standard.
I love to parent.
I love to eat.
I love to fuck.
The rest are nice, sure enough.
Most kids grow out of their idolization of Peter Pan. I don’t care, I still want to be the pretentious, selfish, child chasing his shadow around the room before wooing Wendy to take my hand and shoot out the window past the second star on the right and straight on ’til morning.
These days, the shadow chases me, before pinning me down and sewing my work clothes onto my skin.
I am a sack of crushed spirits and worn out, faded dreams wrapped reluctantly in brand name jeans with dirty t-shirt cherry on top. Tattoos trace my arms and my hair grows awkwardly wondrous, my last hold out on adulthood.
My final remnants of a time when I woke up and shouted rebellion from tables, spitting in the face of the norm with loud music and lifted Nietzsche quotes.
The secret. I never even read Nietzsche. Between Harry Potter and civil disobedience I could only Spark Notes my nihilism.
All my flirtations with the Sex Pistols, my jam sessions to Social Distortion, my wild flailing to Sum 41 and I didn’t even get around to Nietzsche.
The truth of the matter is Johnny Cash was more punk than half the boys screaming hatred for the system into their system bought and paid for microphones.
Would Holden call me a phony? Maybe, but I would call him a whiny little lying fake before hitting him so hard with the knowledge that we all conform when we grow up and to turn his little hunting cap the correct way before the Thought Police begin monitoring him.
Overgrown hair and tattoos. Couple them with my writing and this is the last bastion of hope for this overweight sack of cells to continue the good fight. I can only fight on my night’s off though. And after the kids go to bed. Can we reschedule the last push of the rebellion to next month? Between work and children, I simply have no time to be punk this month.
As the smoke moves lazily through the air I wonder where does it disappear to? It must have some rules and laws imposed on it, It can’t just be like sacks of meaty flesh; forced to submit to rules it never signed up for.
Briton Underwood, better known as Punk Rock Papa, is a parent above all else. When he gets sick of being at their beck and call, he likes to escape to his page or site. He writes about any and everything he wants, but mainly about his twin boys or his newest addition- another boy. He also would like the world to know he has a beautiful wife, because the couch isn’t that comfy.