This is their night


Their night to show everybody what they got. To prove that they are "it" material. This is their time to express themselves without judgement, and wear things unforgivable in daylight. The darkness causes everything to look more dramatic. The lights from the shops only help the glimmer of jewelry and metal shine brighter. Hordes of people gather to this place. This place where they can be whoever they want. This is where anywhere you step is the street-platform to a 5-second glamorous competition as their circle lens-ed eyes gaze over your chosen piece of clothing.

They come in the form of fake eyelashes and make up that take no less than 15 minutes to prepare. In colorful mini skirts and strapless tops. Tiny shorts expose their silk-like legs. Smooth and beautiful. Rings and bracelets flash at every movement. Glamorous girls holding advertisement signs wear scanty clothes to draw in customers. Young boys offer charming smiles to passers and point them in the direction of their selling goods. They beckon and call to you. You would want to come nearer, to examine their flawless character. Their hair is how they expected and want. No frizz, but perfectly held in place with Gatsby hair rubber. Angel-like curls aren't effected by the natural humidity, and heat radiating from crowded bodies. Their purses and bags are attractive and lead the eye.

That is how they pull in looks.

That is how they are beautiful.

And sometimes...
every once in a while,
that is how I wish I could be.


All the, small things


The desk is a mess. But an organized mess. Similar things are put together, the expensive things away from the edge - such as my camera- in case it might fall. My objects are laid neatly and, in the most part, spaced. My make up. Hair ties. Phone, tennis racquet. Snacks near the bed with my book, and a bag of candy. I know where my things are, despite the clutter. Because they're mine.

The world is a mess. One nobody can organize, except God. But He hasn't organized it. So it shall stay screwed up. Similar people attract each other. I see it everyday. Perhaps because of their background? Their ethnicity. Their style or preferences. They recognize these signs in others and feel more secure approaching them instead. They draw one another to each other. The more wealthier people tend to stay away from the ghettos. They prefer to surround themselves in luxuries where they think is safer. But nobody's safe, especially not from themselves. I don't know where anything is. None of these things are mine, but I am a part of this world.

But I don't have to be. I don't have to be. I don't. I can make my own world. However reality is whats still there even after I've stopped believing. Maybe if I leave it alone, it wouldn't get fucked up even more. I have my magazine to keep myself entertained and cranberry juice for the taste. Today I am content.

I check the number. It was the correct one, so I sit. Beside me, a young man is already in his seat. He doesn't wear the army uniform, however his camo backpack and shaved head gives me clues. I settle myself in, and grab a magazine.

I look at him.

He looks at me.

We both turn away, him to the window and me to the shiny pages. I glance over at his ipod. A Cinderella Story is playing. Interesting choice for a man who looks how he does. He has three tattoos. A cross in a circle with star-like designs on one arm. Chinese symbols that say something along the lines of 'I fear no more' on the other arm. And a design I didn't quite get a good look at on his forearm.

I hate flying, he says.

Why? I reply.

He says nothing for a moment. Then, I'd rather be on the ground.

He tells me about himself.

It took him 5 1/2 years to graduate highschool because he dropped out and was caught up in drugs. He is the tank gun loader and he's from Minnesota. He has a picture of a half naked girl on his phone.

The plane lands and we get off.

I tell him bye.

I don't even know his name.