Crooked

"That painting is set a little crooked."

"No, it's not."

Everywhere I go, it's something. Something crooked, something unsymmetric, something that just doesn't seem right. It's funny, too, that I seem to be the only one that notices. Others will swear up and down that it's not crooked, but I'll swear equally strenuously that it is. They're all wrong. Aren't they?

Maybe I'm the one that's crooked.

As I drive westward toward the setting sun, returning home just as my patron star, I sing along quite inaccurately to a more-than-familiar tune, the words of which have been thoroughly pressed within the confines of my skull, mere perturbations among the countless that mar the otherwise-smooth surface of my brain. Singing along is now more a reaction than a conscious act, a reaction that I'm certain attracts the most peculiar of stares from the cars that surround me. As with most involuntary reactions--such as breathing or blinking--it requires little thinking, so my mind wanders. I notice that my head seems to always tilt to the left while I drive, as though seeking out the state of least energy, emulating molecular compounds in their infinitely minute and never-ending search for stability. It reminds me of last week's job interview, set in front of several employees who have unpreparedly been assigned the questioning that will determine how good a fit I may be for the company. During the many meetings I had with company personnel, I found myself again noticing the tilt of my head as it leans to the left ever so slightly. What possesses me to notice such a mundane detail? And why does it matter?

Do I see things differently from everyone else? Is my cranium always set at an oblique angle, non-perpendicular from the surface of the earth and the curvature of my shoulders, non-parallel from the heads of the rest of the upright community? Am I doomed to see all pictures, paintings, and posters at a different angle than everyone else? Is my art doomed to be interpreted by others as unappropriately contorted? Am I to be laughed at and stared at as I walk the street, pointed to and described as The One With The Crooked Face? Will anyone ever see me for what I want to be? For what I really am? What if my head were different from everyone else's? What would that mean? And why does it matter?

Perhaps my head crooks to compensate for my crooked eyes? Perhaps my eyes crook to compensate for my crooked head?

Perhaps my head crooks because my right ear is less effective than my left ear? Perhaps my ears crook because my head has been crooked so long?

Perhaps my head crooks because my heart and soul will it to. Perhaps my heart and soul crook because of the condemnation of my crooked head?

What if I see the world the way it was meant to be seen? What if everyone else were crooked and I the arrow to whom all should strive to be? Certainly I cannot submit to the arrogance of that suggestion. Or can I?

What if I see the world the way I want it to be seen? What if I kid myself with happenings and interpretations thereof that provide the most pleasing result? Life is, after all, only as good as we make it out to be. But can life be made out to be better than it actually is? Can life be made out to be better than it should be? What if I saw only the good and ignored the bad? Would you call me naive? Would you call me insane? Perhaps those who call me the former merely do not understand the potency of positive thought? I have been told on more than one occasion that if I think long enough that I am unworthy, then I will make other people believe that I am unworthy. If I think long enough that I am incompetent, unliked, immoral, unambitious, blind, eccentric--then I will make other people believe it. Maybe it's not true. But if I can think for long enough that life is wonderfully fortunate, that friendship is magnificently grand, that love is ultimately perfect, that beauty is infinitely abundant--and make other people believe it, then it is worth the effort to see light where there is darkness, to see life where there is death, to see beauty where there is nothing, to proudly tilt my head and see the world the way I want it to be seen, the way that I think it should be seen, in hopes that others will see it and crook their heads with me, reaping the benefits and the joy inherent therein.

Do I dream of a perfect world? Do I dream of an ideal world? Do I dream of Utopia, that imaginary concept so long desired by mankind that it has moved entire countries to strike out in fury?

No. I don't dream of it, unless I am already doomed, forever forgotten in this timeless and eternal dream from whence I never wake, from whence I would never want to wake. I dream of nothing so grand and so beautiful, so hopelessly impossible, as eternal and undying peace and prosperity. I dream not of such grandeur as love or beauty. I do but see it. I do but feel it, adore it, cherish it, remember it, record it. I do but constantly strive for it. And with my crooked head, I see crooked paintings in every household. I see non-symmetry in every layout. But with my crooked head, I see light in every dark corner. I see love in everyday life. I see beauty in every organism. I see hope in every situation. Certainly, I do not ignore the negative, for even the negative can be used to positively instruct and to prevent the repeat of history so foul. But I emphasizing the good, magnifying it as demonstration of its overwhelmingly superior power. Ask any bard or story-teller; good will always triumph over evil.

So call me crooked. Laugh it up. Tell your friends, and have them laugh as well. For as you squirm in the bottomless pits of despair, rejoicing for a moment at the momentary lapse in pure suffering that my hilarity impresses upon you, realize that I am far happier now--seeking still my shooting star among the vast heavens of possibilities--than you will ever be. Take your riches, buy your "happiness," and sink further and further into submission at the hands of your unending desires. Let your avarice control your "enviable" and forever-damned life, constantly pushing your meaninglss life toward a meaningless goal.

I will see the love while you are busy yielding to your lust. I will see beauty in nature as you spit with distaste at your defecation. I will chance friendship with a stranger while you eye him with distrust. I will forever be happy, no matter how poor my circumstances, but you will forever be dead, little more than an empty corpse searching for an expensive grave. The optimistic poor are more content than the pessimistic rich.

Or, maybe I'm just tired . . .

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