Open Mindedness.

So I opened my mind. I left the small town of my youth—the lock jawed high school, the church kids flirting with their hands in their pockets. I cut the webs, and flew away to the metropolis—the offspring of human and machine, my new abode. It was scary like the dark, when I first sunk my old canoes, stroked some new ideas and people I had met. At first, I wedged my way into closed spaces where they told me stories in hushed tones. Freedom, to be, to let each moment swell to such intensity of existence, unencumbered by everything except desire. They let me feed. And then I saw it just walking down the street, this gospel, scrawled across brick, tenderly wrapping each post. My gospel. The unity of it all, I thought, staring at it in bathroom stalls. I tried to pierce its truth in three messy words. It was times like those, getting off the pee splashed toilet, wandering back to my flat, that I thought back to the old years: drew extra conclusions from the stark comparisons. Laid my new family on top of my old. And judged. The water was running in my kitchen sink, but I didn’t turn on the lights. I slumped there in the linoleum. Each moment exploded, and I just sat there with my mind open. Tears littered each cheek.