feeling lonely

I saw this kid. Fat, tubby, little, smiley one. Holding an ice cream cone: a perfect mid western vacation photo. Looking at him I couldn't hold back a certain thought: "piggy little spoiled shit!" I surprised my self. I instantly turned all my focus to figuring why this thought had come to me. I had no Idea who this small child was, who raised him, what his interests were, what he laughs at, what makes him scared, how he acts during fits of extreme hunger, how he defends himself against criticisms, what he says when he considers himself witty, or how he perceives women. But for some reason this child beckoned my contempt. He seemed so confident with his ice cream. A shameless dull expression, thinking of nothing of worth, and staring, unselfconsciously, at air and the colors behind it. I could not understand how this child somehow possessed such haughty self-righteousness, and I could only wonder how this small person, this dwarf - not just in size but also, and more importantly, mental development - could have already discovered or conjured up a philosophy that was justification to such a self-implored stature or countenance with so little amount of years under the belt.

His face screamed ignorance. Screamed of accepting some bland assurance that exuding a vapid facial expression to parallel the lack of thought was somehow his shell of safety. And what amazed and disgusted me was the feeling of security surrounding him. Free from self-consciousness. Free from what I'm plagued to believe is one of humanities most prominent traits. I look at this boy. I shake my head at this creature. I do not relate to this thing. If I were to some how believe that I would soon or ever think that the thing I'm looking at now belongs in the same category of species as I do, I would need to condition this entity to grow a human condition I'm more aware of. I would need to break this boy. I would need to smack his ridiculous ice cream cone out of his chubby fingers and spit in his face. That would show him unexpected things like that do happen, and that maybe he should eat his ice cream a little more alert. Maybe next time he finds himself in another alien, blank, thoughtless trance he would remember being slapped. And that would give him something to think about. If I could see him in this moment of growth I might recognize that there is thought behind the ruddy soft skin of his obese face. Then I think I could relate to him. I could believe he's from a species that I ascribe myself to.

I don't often think about violence, but this little pink boy is taking me there. Taking me to place in my head that imagines acting out the need to perform some irrational occurrence that doesn't belong to a clock he somehow seems to tick to; to a schedule he abides by, a routine he performs, a television air time he prepares for, a predictable joke or a predictable meal in a predictable family setting, or a recent hit song from his father's radio; something that he might not all together expect but would certainly not be surprised by. I wanted to be that surprise that he never would have expected. I wanted to give this boy an instance of life that he wasn't expecting and was shaken by. Something that existed outside of his realm of understanding. Something he's never imagined experiencing. Something not a part of himself. Something he non-voluntarily received from a selfish vehement person who wanted to lessen this kid's self-importance and self assured security that nothing bad could possibly happen to him. Nothing God hadn't planned. I'm not even sure why God even came to my mind at that point, but, but now I'm sure this little boy inadvertently shot me the thought through his mannerisms. Mannerisms that mimicked the way people act when avoiding mingling after a sermon or at a church reception. People who believe they should be there when they seek nothing from the experience other than to occupy time. People I've despised. People that were there when I've felt the empty promises of that type of community. People that were there when I've felt the empty promises of the Lord. People that condoned the belief in these empty promises. People that solicited this belief. I thought to myself:

"Well, my little one, I will give you a little jarring when I slap the cone out of your hand and spit in your face. I can predict you will have two ways of interpreting this: one; that this "God," this strange enigmatic entity you subscribe to, well, he works in funny ways, and it is up to you and your closer confidants to define a meaning to draw from this experience; or, two; you could all together stop believing in God entirely, and be driven mad by endless surmises of what could possibly have driven such an act as reproachable as knocking your ice cream from your hands and spitting in your eyes. My angered grimace of loathing will stain your memory of that shock to your reality. You'll never understand how someone could hate you so much, but you'd be troubled by the thought that such hate exists. Our worlds merged and it wasn't in some congenial formality you've been acculturated to view how all interactions should take place or have a hint of to warm all involved with a sense of familiarity. A familiar awkwardness that is ubiquitously accepted from community to community, from state to state, country to country, culture to culture."

Our worlds merged and your sense of security was broken. Sense of familiarity; shattered. The moment is something I own alone. And I would pass on the awareness to recognize the ability to own a moment. Because we all need to. He didn't seem understand that. Didn't seem to know he possessed that potential. And I need to believe that we all do.