Nice.

Holidays, of palm trees and blue skies and lace-canopied beds on porches overlooking the sea.

None tell of the mosquitoes which feed on clots of your blood in buzzing swarms, or the scalding of the sun on your skin.

Love hearts dot the world in an eternal, happy, commercialized pattern.

None tell of the ugly, muscular pumping, the throb of bulging purple-blue veins, the horrid thick fleshiness.

Marriages are petty arguments and candle-lit dinners and howling children and sweet lie-ins in the morning.

None tell of the flies the both of you grow into, flies on the walls, buzzing feebly at each and choked in the muggy air of onwards.

Success is a golden beacon of validation.

None tell of the eternal smog of doubt, that turns every achievement into a pitiful anthill, and blows your existence down to dust.

But there lies, in all this a reconciliation.

All tell of the horrors of existence, the gap between one’s ideal and reality, the shock of coming to where you have wanted to come and finding yourself and the world the same, but…

None tell of the nice dream it all is, the nice briefness it all is, the kiss that is nice because it is nice, and nothing more, the bed that is nice because our body needs rest, nothing more, the book that is nice because our minds yearn to escape beyond its bone carapace, nothing more, the niceness of it all that is nothing but nice, so nice.

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