The Kid Behind the Food Counter

She’s sound asleep next to me yet over a thousand miles away. From Apple’s Facetime application, I rest my phone next to my pillowcase as her silent breathing keeps me awake; contemplating the future and if I can hold onto the things I love most.

I sell donuts, you know?  Those circular sugar pastries. Loaded with calories and grease and served in different flavors. Despite the relaxation of it all, it’s just a sugar ring. They all taste the same and despite the pink icing, the sprinkles, the filling, in the end it all comes out looking the same. Yet, people stretch their necks out, feel disheartened to know their donut cost $1.20 and raise their eyebrows as if I held their hands into the store to order.

When I come home I see my novel in only its first draft format. I never found the motivation to proof reading 400 pages. My mark on this planet is less than the size of a baby’s finger nail. This world is built to make one believe that if you make something original and noteworthy the world will hail you as some hero, but it doesn’t. You can create over a million times. It could be anything. Something that hasn’t been written or said yet. You’re not important unless somebody who is important mentions you.

Sometimes I sit outside for a while and think if the people around me have it any better. If the people at the bus stop have it better. All those cars. All those little windows lit up at 7:30 with people like little dolls squirming around doing whatever they do at that time. There are only a few things in life that make me feel comfortable.

My girlfriend also my future wife. That cup of coffee worth the last sip. When my pancakes turn out perfect. Closing the store doors at 10:55 PM. Also, writing on this blog. I don’t know who is watching me but you take care of me. In some odd distant way, when you read this I feel you reading me. But god forbid you understand what I’m talking about. I just hope you have it better.


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