I am waltzing down Amsterdam, spring in my step. I take long strides filled with bravado and swagger. It’s frigid, but naturally, I am wearing shorts. The shorts make me manly. Right?
Well, anyway. People stare at me. I enjoy the quizzical looks and whispered judgments. They fuel me. The glares are like warm layering over my chilled skin. Their attention makes me smile. I grin and lift my chin, king of the world; or at least this block.
I look down at the street. The gray block is decorated with dark circles of gum. Battle scars. I hop from square to square. Don’t step on cracks. That’s what they tell me. Don’t step on cracks else your mother will break her back. I step on one.
As I am prancing, I notice a glimmering, shiny object. Being attracted to shiny things, much like a primate, I stop and investigate.
I peer down at the gossamer item. There are four brass one-centimeter long gadgets. They are keys. I dare to pick them up. The brownish-gold metal is bitter and unforgiving to my palm. There is a miniscule sandal attached to the pair of keys. The miniature sandal reminds me of pleasant memories. I laugh.
One of the keys is painted purple, so that the moronic owner of these can differentiate. The key is marked, branded. He is forever living with the color, the association. The marked key is misconstrued and he cries out. I hear his cries. He is my favorite.
The branded key’s brother is tag-less, independent. Free from assumptions and predictions. The brother is pristine, untouched, pure. Simply said, he is lucky. He is but an innocent child. He is not tattooed with taboo. He is unadulterated brass, and quite beautiful. But, he is a shell of materialistic, egotistical nothingness. He is not very interesting.
There is a ring, silver, that holds all of the items on the pair of keys together. It takes individual, secluded beings and creates a partnership. The ring has generated a motley crew. A brotherhood. A bond. Without complaint, the glistening ring has taken responsibility for all of the keys. The ring is there rock. Never feeble.
While I am observing the pair of keys, I begin to ponder. What can this little object do? Can it take me out of this? Out of this shell and this fake? Can it lead me somewhere I haven’t been before? Will it teach me, like a rabbi spewing wisdom? Will it take me from this block with the dark circles and bring me to a field? Wide open, with no judgments or prior conceptions. Where I am the grass, the sky, and the cow. A place where I am their, gluttonously sitting soaking in the afternoon sun. Away from these cars and buildings and the smell. The smell of fakeness. I want to go away. Not to stay long, but at least to escape. I know I cannot leave forever. I am too self-conscious.
Well, I have been staring, on one knee, at this clever utensil for a good five minutes now, and I am sure I look ridiculous. I was supposed to be doing something else, but I forget. The keys have warped me, taken me to if not my place, a place of deep thought and nirvana. Is it the keys that are manifesting this meditation, or myself? Am I truly capable of this? No way, there must be another reason. These keys are the greatest discovery I have ever made. They have opened doors within myself, that I swear weren’t there before. I begin to cry; the significance of this occurrence has finally hit me. I am a pseudo-intellectual and totally confused, but I am going to be OK. This is fantastic. And I owe it all to those beautiful, genius, and pontific keys. I take a closer look at my saviors and, then I realize.
The keys; are my keys. Damn