A Pocket Full of Posies

We give others the benefit of the doubt because we’re afraid to see how little we really mean to them. They don’t have to sugarcoat their words. We’ll do it for them. We’re afraid to look at the true meaning of their actions and so we’ll only look at the intention they project and appreciate it for what it appears to be. Their thoughtful acts are reserved for another and we admire them for it, failing to see the thoughtless implications for us. Ignorance is bliss, haven’t you heard?

Someday your eyes will open and suddenly the world won’t be the rose-tinted dream you thought it was. Thought bubbles around their minds are colourful shades of black, finally visible to you. Conversations will collapse, much like a house of cards, each card a dagger, much like homes and families. Much like relationships which you struggled to rebuild once upon a time. You know better now, you know to give up on them. You were never assigned the job to keep bridges intact; why did you take it?

You can see now. Always taking, even acts of giving are merely to take. Giving nullified by motives behind it. An intention selfish in the guise of selflessness. Selfish in selfless’ clothing. And gifts given are marionettes, smiling, wide-eyed, obedient, doing their will. Silent all the while, giving nothing away. Again, your aghast mind wonders, How can thoughtful gestures prove to be so thoughtless? Thoughtless thoughtfulness? You grapple with disparity, oppressing your mind against obvious comparisons. That’s just how things are, you must remember, you remind yourself.

But it isn’t the ugly green monster, it isn’t. Instead it’s sorrow. In the light of your open eyes, words are daggers. They stab and from each wound pour tears. But none are guilty unless they are aware of it, unless they accept the burden of their guilt. They cannot see the anguish in your eyes, you tell yourself, so how could they know? In the realm of your merciless silence, they continue on, choosing to be oblivious simply by refusing to be aware, not blind but unseeing, and there somewhere you are lost and you are forgotten, even by you.

Discordant answers await, so we refrain from seeking. We recoil from confrontation for screams would break our reverie. Ignorance is bliss. Or so I’ve heard.