Boring Days are for the Old Not the New

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Most days are very boring, aren’t they?  For you, what makes a day boring?  Nothing to do?  No one to talk to?  Are the bad ones better than the boring ones?  On some days, especially the boring ones, I think so.

I’m glad we’re having this little chat because there are some things I’d like to talk to you about. Some things about myself I’d like to tell you. And I hope you’ll listen.

My name is Paul and I know that it’s not a very creative name. I’m sorry about that and I’m sorry that I can’t fault my parents for it because they don’t exist. Well, I guess that merits some explanation. It’s not what you think either, it’s not that I’m adopted or that I was a bastard in a basket or any of the other stories you’ve got milling around in your head right now. I am, instead of those things, a creation of this moment. Right now, as you are reading this, I’m being molded and formed. All of the things that make me ‘me’, my short cropped blonde hair and blue eyes are being fabricated as we speak. And all by me! And you, I guess. I know, blonde hair and blue eyes. How that evokes such a terrible ideology. And I’m just learning now who Hitler is and I’m growing a sense of resentment of my appearance. I’m sorry I look like this.

I do have parents now. It’s not that I lied earlier, they just didn’t exist yet. They are grand people and if you give me a second I can tell you about them. See. My father’s name was Paul as well, but he went by his middle name. Sinclair. Paul Sinclair Wadsworth. What a name! What a beautiful name! Finally, some creativity here. He was a religious man who hated literature and the arts with an unreasonable passion. Perhaps that’s why he was killed by a writer so very early on in this story.

My mother though, was a patron of the arts. She loved writers and books, painters and art, singers and music, actors and film. Perhaps that’s why she led a very long and beautiful life filled with the joy and fulfillment one only knows through the appreciation of beautiful things. In fact, she is still alive today and will no doubt love to read this. She will see it for its flaws, as you see me, but will appreciate the little nuggets of truth and substance. And what a long life she will live!

I have the body of a cherub, albeit a full-sized one for a full-sized human. And, according to my name I am a male of my species. How very unfortunate for me on both accounts. A blonde haired blue eyed baby bodied man. Not very elegant in appearance, but I hope as I grow in my appreciation of beautiful things I will gain the weight of your approval. That I will become a human of class and intellect. That I will in some way find your love. That’s the whole point of this thing, right?  Of being created, to be loved?  I’m pretty new at all of this so please do forgive me if I get a few things wrong.

Fuck. I’ve learned to speak with passion. With obscenity but with passion. I’m gaining a bit of an edge here. I’ll stay away from the drugs for right now, especially alcohol. It seems so very destructive to my happiness. And I hope you realize that has everything to do with me and who I am and not you and who you are. Then again, it might have to do with you. But we can move on now.

It would be nice to have an environment or other living creature to react to. To experience things with and in. Gardens are nice but I’ll take the city if it pleases you. I’d like to be on the top of a building looking down at a sea of existence, of creation and of sensation. I’d love to learn to tap into this sensation. To feel what others feel. To empathize. But I do realize that’s a pretty advanced skill so I’ll be patient. And the ‘others’ thing. Let’s do away with that, shall we? What an ugly and useless concept. I would though, still like to experience all of this with a living creature that isn’t me. See how I did that, avoided the word ‘other’ there. I had to think about it for a whole minute before I got it right. Thanks for being patient.

A dog will do but I’d like a person. People seem to be so much more flawed than animals. They do, by all accounts, do more harm than animals. They are less lovable than animals. They seem to love less than animals. And I’m just now realizing, too late perhaps, that I am a person. Is it too late to be a dog?

What a day! Not a boring one at all, the day on which I came into existence. That I was created, by you, in part. That I was birthed into existence in your brain. I guess I was just postulating there at the beginning, about all of the different kind of days. I’ve only known today and really only this moment. And I don’t know if I exist past this page. So thanks for helping out.

Ryan Morris

Ryan Morris is an emerging author living in the Washington, DC area. Focusing on the interplay between identity and reality, his work is as close to the truth as possible (with exceptions). He’s been published most recently in The Bitchin KitschPotluck Magazine and Bookanista. 

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