Short Story/Prose, Thoughtful

Musings from a Skeptic

largeI wonder where passion originates from and why it seems to have slipped from my grasp.

In the  blissfully naive days of my recent, sophomoric, misdirected youth, passion was endearingly too common, clogging my mind with images of crafted lust.

I blame the media profusely; the movies that script a love that conquerors death, TV shows where loves grows even when it falters, and commercials that tell you that gifts make cruel words and misogynistic comments go away like one, two, three…

As seasons change from bright pink to the darkest of purples, my passion has wilted like a lovely flower, neglected and brown. No longer am I the girl searching for the love, scanning the room for the next hunt, crossing her legs and baring her assets in tight, cheap clothing. I am the young woman with focused eyes, distant and overlooking as her future becomes closer in reach.
She is an ambitious type with pursed lips and a clean, minimalist look. The boys watch her go with lust in there eyes but she seems almost like a phantom, there but not.

Love seems like a tangible thing that is made in China and consumed by the hungry, gluttonous hands of the American populace. Young girls are taught how to manipulate boys like putting on a bra. It’s easy they say-they the older girls with broken, shifty eyes and experienced hands- your body is a loaded gun, point and shoot.

With advice like that, it is no wonder I am a skeptic.

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