Some people are beautifully abstract movies:
enlightened visions of an idea come to life through cryptic scripting and inspired cinematography.
Slow burns full of brilliant dialogue that leave you thinking about them long after you've seen their open endings.
The kind that only the intelligentsia could ever truly appreciate, with a poor audience score but universally loved by critics.
The kind of movie with a cult following that comes up in late night conversations amongst hipsters sharing their opinions on the pieces of art that have made the biggest, longest lasting impacts on them.
The kind that takes hours of scrutiny and analyzation just to feel like you've arrived at some vague sense of what it all means.

And then there are people like me,
who are less like grand artistic visions of profound cinematography,
and more like reality tv.

The kind of thing a working suburban mother tunes into after a double at the local diner/supermarket/pharmacy counter.

The kind of non-committal, light-hearted viewing that never comes close to demanding your full attention. Just a myriad of characters brought together with a loose premise and slightly coerced tension.

The kind of thing you could have a conversation over, and walk away from and come back to, and still know what's going on, because it's just all so obvious - it never requires much thought.

The kind of show where the actors have every viewer convinced that they're something that they're not.

Love is a fiction being written in the moment and read in the past,
and it only lasts for as long as both parties involved believe it to be true.

Sand sticks to me and you, like little pieces of memories we can't be certain of ever being true.

Like something half-remembered from a dream.
The way your body glows in the sunlight reminds me of a dream I once had of you.
The way our bodies press against each other while the waves wash away the fragments of what we've tried to forget for so long,
it's just like a scene from a dream I haven't dreamt of in so long.

Back on the shore, we're drinking beer and rehashing the past.
Reliving things we swore we'd never think about anymore.
The kinds of things that never last but show up unexpectedly at our door,
right around midnight.

One last moor before this ship sails for foreign harbors.
One last meal before we shed our shells.
One last dance with the ghosts of our former selves before we drown forever beneath the swell of the ocean.

The distant waves beat down on the beach like the dreaded mundanity of tomorrow's realities.

The moon's glow slowly steals the spaces where the sun once shone down.

The persistent ocean eats away at the land until it's all gone.

Maybe it was never even there at all.

He doesn't feel real.
He doesn't think that the things in his life that are real should be that way.
He wastes his time away wondering about ambiguous things;
a different way of living life that could,
in theory,
lead to happiness.

They're meeting in laundromats.
They're meeting in bars.
They're meeting at stop signs, grocery stores and parks.

They're meeting at that new hipster restaurant downtown
(I've read that their noodles are to die for.)

It's happening all the time,
all around the world,
right where you live and everywhere beyond.

Young hearts intertwine at the drop of a dime.

Lonely hearts march on.

. . .

While embarrassingly unprepared for it, the forces that be occasionally sweep me up in their infinite mystery,
like a reddening leaf freed from a tree by a sudden gale.

To float through the air of a seasonal gasp that ends too soon,
only to land in a stream that flows too quickly for me to catch my bearings.
The tale they tell of it will never do for the real thing.

It's such a rare and unforeseen breeze that ever brings me nearer to you.

How I wish that it would blow more often.