-The Expanding Inclusive Total Equivalence Theory of Ridiculously Undetermined Equality -

 

So what exactly is it that makes everyone so damn sure of everything?

I could be here right now, couldn't I?

                                                               Or I couldn't.

Or I could. Or maybe not.

                                    Sure, apples can be green.

 

But hell, they can also be very red.

                                                               Blindingly red.

Or yellow, if you bite them.

                  Except for

                                    When you

                                                      Leave them

                                                                        Out on the counter,

                                                      Half Eaten

                                    All alone.

         They turn nasty brown.

 

Now, who says brown is nasty? (A lot of nice things are brown, like puppies and new corduroy pants and other nice things that are brown.)

                        Well, maybe I do.

                                    But maybe you don't.

                                    And that's fine.

                                    But listen,

What if what's brown to me, is green to you?

Say, aM i cOnfUSiNg yoU?

      It's quite simple, really.

      Blindingly simple, really.

 

         Let me break it down for you.

                                             I got this idea.

                                                               When I was born,

         A terrific idea, really.

         About everything.

         And nothing.

         But definitely something.

 

An idea that just about no one can quite seem to grasp except yours truly.

 

Andit'snotbecauseI'mcrazyoranything,

ButsimplybecausenooneelseissmartenoughtobeasstupidasIam.

Buthey.

Letmetryagain.

Withthiswholeexplainingthing.

 

      So this apple I have, say it's red.

      Wait, no, say its green.

      Then it's decided, we'll go with brown.

 

This brown apple of ours, this nasty, beautiful brown apple.

                                             Maybe this brown to me,

                                             Is red to you,

                                             And green to Sally Sue over there?

Say that my brown is your red and your red is Sally's green,

But none of us ever had the guts to ask each other if my brown was really some nasty green.

 

Because, well, here's the truth.

                        Apples. Are. Fruit.

                           I promise you.

                           I promise you that apples are fruit.

Or are they sheep?

                           No, they're not, I promised you.

         But can you prove that you did?

                           Yes, I wrote it down, up there, up on the page.

                  What page?

                           The page I wrote on. Up there.

                           Well,

 

The point of all this is,

No one can really be too sure of just about anything, can they?

                                    They can't be sure I'm here writing this,

Or you're here reading this,

                                    Or even that we're here having this mutual conversation lost within those blank spaces of time when a word is traveling from pasty pink lips,

To hairy pink ears.

                                    For all anyone knows writing and reading and awkward conversations are all the same thing.        

 

Is it stupid to think this way?

                                                               You tell me.

 

                                    No one can be sure.

                                    Of anthing.

 

And if you're sure,

Then you don't exist.

                                                               Unless you think you do.

                           In which case,

                           You're only real

                           To yourself

                           And you're all alone

                           In a very crowded world.

                           You just gotta' make sure.

                           That no one leaves you,

                           All alone,

   Half eaten,

                           On that kitchen counter,

                           With just yourself,

                           Or else you'll turn all sorts of colors.

 

 

 

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