Static Solace

The rain washes ugly away, streaking it down the street to pool in a pile of disgust. You either love the rain or hate it. There doesn’t seem to be an in-between or indifference to it’s presence.

If God loves ugly, he’s done a damned good job with his creations.

The woman with the bruises on her face seeks solace. An escape. She types her 6-12 characters, making sure to capitalize a letter and use a number, logging herself on to a freedom. A place where the only hitting is from horny men begging for her touch. She forgot what it was like to be wanted. To be needed. Cherished and worshipped. Her feminine royalty, her beauty, stripped away to be replaced with handprints across her face.

And it goes, and it goes, and it goes.

I believe I may have been manufactured an emotional mess. Then again, God loves ugly.

He stays up late browsing stangers’ profiles. Wondering if their smiles are genuine or fake. In the mirror he tries to imitate the glint in their eyes. Failing to do so, he continues scrolling on. Wandering the web in search of the secret to happiness. Having found no way to emulate the smiles, he tries to find the happiness on the wild frontier.

This story isn’t him or her. There are millions out there connecting to the machine. Looking for a new electronic painkiller. They masquerade about. Liking. Commenting. The artificial creation of moments in a world that forgets your faults.

Your deformities and imperfections. Your inability left at the login screen as you scroll for more.

And it goes. And it goes. And it goes.

She’s had enough. Bullet in the chamber she contemplates which would be more satisfying. Killing him or dying tonight. Someone is closing their eyes. She’s had enough. Of being dragged through madness. Her self-confidence doused in kerosene. The whiskey toxic on his breath and the matches in his hand. She’s had enough tonight. He’s always looking for a fight.

The stories intertwine. Pull from it we are all together just be careful you may unravel. That’s what you get for picking at the seams.

He writes a quick note on a wall like a bathroom stall. Fulfilling his duty of wishing all the best, he can go back to the other 364 days of the year where they don’t matter at all. Who screwed the relationship up doesn’t matter anymore. But online, the family is still whole.

We are all doing it. Don’t be ashamed.

She moves through a dating site. The suitors a left or right swipe away. She doesn’t want the romance. Attention-seeking, looking for the validation of her early twenties.

All the beauty online.

He writes her everyday. Sure he felt a surge of something inside. Manufacturing the love to release endorphins in his brain. He wonders why she doesn’t answer. She came her to leave the creeps in her life.

She’s plugged in. He’s plugged in. I’m plugged in, and you are, too.

We’ve all got a reason to escape. A burning desire to fill the emptiness. To find something we are missing when the screen goes black.

Broken fucking souls hoping to become whole. Electronically.

She does this.

He does that.

They never meet, but their paths certainly cross. They never know one another but have a hell of a good time.

God loves ugly. It’s what he creates.

We run to social media. the last remnants of our beauty. Where we are reproduced as the blessed children we learned about in Sunday School. The lucky ones, who have it all together.

And it goes. And it goes. And it goes.

The quiet loud.

The introvert extroverted.

We find our friends through strands of wire and Wifi.

They are out there. The broken people. They are out there. Pretending to be whole.

The rain washes sadness away to pile in a pool of disgust.

Care for a splash?

the-union-of

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