Time. Truth. Hearts.

In between the reality of manufactured truths and those lies we grew up loving and depending on, I found a flaw that could be abused and misconstrued, to your advantage or otherwise, to help you get by. I was banking on the fact that there was always a fallback to anything I did.

While time leisurely took its time to pass by the streets, throwing irritated glances at me , I perfected my headstand and pushed myself to the limits as to how long I could go without food-water-and-air. I was a big Beatles fan and I really was considering their mantra of all-you-need-is-love and those psychedelic crap Lennon seemed to have a knack of conjuring from that beautiful, drug infested mind of his. In fact, the older I got, the more naive I seemed to have become.

In my free time, I managed to derive the formula which stated that delta h, or happiness minus sorrow, would approximately equal the summation of ramblings I made plus half of the distortion I created through my incessant singing, all over the nth factorial where n is the number of times I’ve had an orgasm sans love.

It was all fun, as I celebrated my intelligence with a bottle of champagne and some good music from those obscure artists with black fingernail polish, which seemed to have been a requisite for obscurity, until I realized that the more I came, the less happy I would be. I was thinking of all the people I had tasted and I had to stifle a laugh. It looked as if I would be winning the Nobel Prize for outstanding contributions to Physics and Math but be very unhappy about it.

I was getting tired of all the paradoxes and oxymorons and all those smoking guns and red herrings, deus ex machinas, and instant food processing devices. I was getting tired of it all. I was getting tired of the fact that a big chunk of happiness was derived from repetition. From the constant thumps of a basketball on the vinyl floor, to the routinary humps of a good friday night fuck, to assembly lines, to pay days, and the idiosyncrasies of religion and lack thereof. My fuse seemed to be, not short, but absent altogether.

It was all a mess.

My beliefs, ideals, and the way I made the bed.

In the end, you’ll have to swallow them all. In the end, you’d just have to love me for making this life more complex than it should be.

We’d make love as, in the background, Paul repeatedly would sing, “Let it be, let it be, let it be.”