Standing

I start running down a tree lined street over cracked asphalt and cigarette butts. A truck with an altered exhaust and 4 guys in fluorescent polo’s revs by me. One of the guys calls me a pussy. Alright. Shutting my eyes I keep running, tilting my head back and opening my mouth up to the night. I wonder how we got to this point, my generation. I’m thankful we have no Great War, no Normandy or Iwo Jima to storm. Our bodies are too soft from nights of whoring and drunkenness. Our hearts too weak from lack of discipline and aimless living. The women we left back home would be too busy worrying about who Paris Hilton was banging and getting banged themselves to write us letters to keep our spirits up and the war would be lost before it began. The Real World is not the real world. The American Idol is just that, an idol. A false being we put our hopes and dreams in, for lack of strength to pursue them ourselves. It’s not about religion, guilt, or sin anymore. It’s about not being a scumbag…to stand for something. To fight for something virtuous and tangible instead of drunken shit-talking. To have enough respect for the barley conscious girl we met in the bar to roll over and go to sleep instead trying to bang her. To be worthy. These are my aims, my hopes.