Honey Preachin’
People ask me say Winston is there way to send you jar of raw honey? Is there way to send you skateboard, or shoes, so you don’t have to walk around town barefoot? Is there way to ship you sleeping bag so you aren’t using ant hills as pillow and grass as bed? And I say only way to help me is click below.
“What’s the point?” lethargic eyes highlight the authenticity of his question. Exhaustion floods the air and for a second I think about wrapping my fingers around his neck, choking him for a minute to see what answer he finds to his own question.
I don’t do it.
My fingers are in a mason jar of raw honey that someone gifted me yesterday and this, despite physically incapacitating me, has put me in a giddy mood. The rumor is that the bees, creators of this delicious and Godly substance, are kept hidden in the mans back yard under a make shit shed that’s able to be put up and taken down in 90 second...
All of this is to avoid repercussion from the HOA.
I’m sticky all over. More than sticky, really. My whole entire body is covered in golden goo but nobody seems to notice and so I continue listening.
“Does any of it really matter? I mean what, man? We work, maybe have a family, work more to provide for them? It all seems monotonous, predictable. How do people do this for ever?”
Tight lips allow his despair to be expressed for a moment and I want to say something to console but at this point I’m covered in so much honey that I’ve lost all ability to move. I’m frozen in time and space by this golden ooze and my lips are sealed together by it so I’m forced to sit and take this depressing shit to the face.
“I don’t think there’s a real purpose here. Or maybe even an afterlife. It all seems to be about money, selfishness. Everywhere I look is greed, pride, no humility, no joy. Everyone is serving themselves and the world steps on the kind hearted. Look what they did to Jesus.”
I’m physically suffocating under the honey. It’s started to seep through every pore and I can feel my blood uniting with it in some unholy matrimony below my skin.
I can’t see him anymore because I’ve had to close my eyelids to keep my eyes safe from being consumed yet still I hear,
“… no love. I think it’s a care thing. There’s nothing I care about, or am excited to experience. Remember when we were younger and everything piqued our interest? Those days seemed full of color and it’s probably because everything was new. So many ‘first’ where now it’s all watered down by repetition. We drink here, smoke there, fuck them, eat this, sleep there, drive the same roads. My Monday will be the same as the last 23 Mondays. The monotony really. It’s so loud that it makes you deaf to everything else. You get tunnel vision on going through the motions. No shortcuts entice you, no new experiences because they don’t increase efficiency. The only point that’s driven home constantly is that time rules us all and after that it’s salary or the person you cal….”
His voice turns to muffles and I can feel the honey slipping inch by inch further down into my ear.
Mouth still sealed I feel the golden warmth at the back of my throat and I realize I’m drowning from the inside out.
Every pore, crevice, all of it suffocated by the honey.
“You’re too focused on the end. The finish line. You overlook the magic infront of you by focusing on where you’ll be in 10 years. God may strike you down Wednesday but you spent all of Tuesday worrying about Thursday.
Do you get it?
Do you see why you feel dull, no vibrancy?
Do you understand why your perception is the way it is?
You have no love for life. You should kill yourself. Yeah really, do it. What’s that saying, the get going tough and the going tough get?
You’re an over-thinker, philosophical brained. And not even the good type, not even the Absurdist type. You’ve made your bed to be a pit of despair. You overlook that EVERYTHING matters. EVERYTHING deserves a closer look. We drive the same roads but the leaves by the side of the street blow a different angle every time, change colors infront of our eyes!
We eat the same foods but the levels of spice, the way the flavor hits the corners of you mouth, the way you chew, the way it nourishes you. It all matters. It’s all a gift.
what’s happening?
I wish you’d put your soul into something. A family, a piece of art, an idea. Something that you want to be remembered for when you die because what is it now? HERE LIES THIS MAN: HE SPENT HIS DAYS SAD ABOUT HIS DAYS.
You have free will! The oppurtunity to burn bridges just to feel the warmth of the fire. There is nothing in this world out of grasp.
But you feel there is because of the monetary value. You can’t fly to Italy on a whim so sadness creeps in. But you can take a barefoot walk to the lake under a starry night and talk outloud to the skinwalkers lurking in the tree.
You need the eyes of the Child combined with the bravery of Man. Sprinkle in too much Risk. Take your foot and throw it over the cliffs edge.
Everything will be okay. Kinetic. Move more. Pray harder. Look closer. Expend your energy.”
I wish I could say all of this but at this point I’ve morphed into the Honey and I can’t separate where it starts and I end and I don’t even know if he’s still here I can’t see anything, feel anything, hear anything.
MUCH LOVE
WINSTON
SOULED IDEA
MELTED CRIMINAL
"You are about to enter another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land of imagination.
