on buoyancy

I ache and i ache towards your peaches-and-cream, white-lace-fairy-tale philosophy of being, but: Every Good Boy Does not do Fine, nor every good girl; mainly because of the world being so festering and swollen from having been wrapped up in chicken wire for all these years.

You foolish girl! So devastatingly untranslatable and novel-- you are like a hiccup in a downpour! Unable to be Great but Refusing to be Small. You think that you will scamper from sizzle to sizzle, sleeping always where the sun is shining; while he grows stagnant mold and rots in his banality. You think that you will not be domesticated by the great white button-down of Fate-- you think it will not iron your slacks and glaze your clear sharp eyes with complacency-- that you will not succumb--

Not foolish, perhaps; perhaps buoyant. Perhaps intoxicated by the first few drops of life's syrup; perhaps alarmed that i will be like the first few lines of a half-remembered children's song, a vague gurgle of effervescence tickling the edge of a memory-- so transient.

So very small.