The beauty in being American was and still is the freedom to set your sights on a lifestyle you dream for yourself and go after it with all your spirit and cleverness and nerve. The hurt you feel when you fail is yours and yours, alone. Maybe it will lead to a dead end street and bar or romance. An ashtray full of butts. 24 hours of loneliness can be hell. And then your back in the game, if you’re young, the world is black and white.
I get an eerie sensation on a sunday night standing on the precipice of the death of a weekend. I get the kind of rattled only a vanilla shake in an American diner can quell, listening to Elvis on the jukebox with friends, in a booth upholstered in automotive leather, flirting and killing off time.
I was made American
One shoreline will never do
I need two
Life gets better with wind
and rain and all the idol rock stars
sucked into the muddy banks
early morning americans
|k. early morning devotée|
This post showcases my underlying feelings about being a child in America in the twenty-first century, which is equal parts horrifying and exhilarating… http://www.katyamills.com/2015/08/the-child.html