Junk.

Trash. Such bad connotations. When really, trash is the epitome of beauty. Something, some item, used for its purpose, used up, used until it is no longer useful, and then discarded.

Isn’t this the story of life?

The meaning of life?

We use and are used.

Pawns in this game. Our interactions with the world around us have the ability to crumple us up and toss us in the gutter.

And what better place to lie? At peace and content, knowing that we have served our purpose, that our usefulness has fully coincided and collided with and to the measure of the Master plan.

Garbage. Anything but garbitrary. Garbage doesn’t happen on a whim. You think before throwing. There is choice involved. And though you chose to throw, it was caught by the hands of this land where it will be valued beyond your capability, mulched into the earth withstanding time as we know it.

Refuse. All that is refuse has been refused. Denied. Cast away. Made to play another day in the muck and the mire.

Litter. Encapsulating all trash, garbage, refuse. Litter constitutes ownership. And henceforth consequences. Something deemed to be trash has fallen from deep within your palms, and therefore you will pay.

Trash is a teenaged boy, tall, scrawny, a little rough around the edges. He’s been to hell and just got back. His hell is the bottom of the can. Covered in slop, mopped off the brow, who knows how, but he’s back. Back with some lessons learned, ready to spurn some folks on toward love and good deeds, for he, he is the epito-me, me, of beau-ty.

Garbage is a bit on the rounder side. Rotund. Speech is a bit garbled, but he’s brilliant, resilient, nonetheless. A middle aged man forgotten due to his lack of voice, or choice for that matter. Because he can’t speak well, his presence is condemned to hell, the sound of a bell, resounds in his absence. You pushed him out. Released him from your hands. But he finds value outside of you. You do not define him.

Refuse is delicious. Eye candy. Irresistible. The tall, dark, and handsome sort. Paradoxical. He says one thing but means another. Toys with you. And in the same way let’s himself be toyed with. You will not let him in and he will not let you in. Refusing to love. Refusing to be loved. Bars on the doors. Lids on the cans. Denied. And in denial. No is the word, the favored word. A no man is a safe man. Protected by the stiff lines of the N, the unbreakable chain of the O.

Brothers they are. Fathered by Litter. A litter of lessons belonging to the Master. Because He is their Creator, the consequences of their misgivings become His own. He absorbs them without thought. And loves them nonetheless.

The boys grew up without a mother. Scattered about this earth with smatterings of solemnity. Serious. Dignified in their approach to life. Their names self-proclaimed later in life. They lived to love. Although scarred by absence, pain was the flame that lit the world, ignited it with their love.

Until society beat them down. Shoved them into boxes. Into gutters. Into cans. Trash too tall, too skinny. Garbage too garbled and fat. Refuse too beautiful, too perfect. Never enough, or always too much.

A happy medium for this world does not exist.

The people of this planet will centrifugally spin you about until there is no core left within you. They will glare you into the gutter. They will talk you into the nearest trash can. They will envy you into episodes of egregiousness.

You are not who you think you are. According to society’s rigid lines of who you should be. Who you’re supposed to be. You are not right. Nor will you ever be.

They chose new names as a means of breaking the back, attack, BOOM! KACK!, cracked open the egg of Doom. Doom being the name of this mortal world.

By naming themselves according to society’s perceptions, they would play a part in breaking the back of convention. Trash grabbed a chisel. Garbage grabbed a dull steak knife. And Refuse whipped out a hatchet. Together the three would cut the legs out from under a monster, cut the head off a giant, leaving nothing but the trunk of a beast, throbbing, aching, begging forgiveness from the many it had banished for being. Simply being.

The journey is long. It is arduous. There will be pain, but there must with it be perseverance. For what is perseverance but persistence beyond severance.

For we are often cut to pieces. Crumpled. Boxed. Beaten. Bruised. Belittled.

We must all learn to sew. To endure the needle.

We pick ourselves up and become patchwork quilts of lessons learned.

Litter loved prodigally. Wastefully and extravagantly. Those boys grew up without a mother, but were graced with a Father that knew no bounds. The consequences of His love are not known for they are Trash, Garbage, and Refuse.

Be always contrary to what they will think. What they will say.

Take the world by storm in breaking the norm. Become a form adorned with unconventional beauty. Whether crumpled, withered, sharp, sleek, oblique, you are antique with value beyond measure.

For though you may lose sight, your almighty Kite will fight amidst plight. You stand feet planted on this mortal playground but a taut string ties you to heavenly realms. His vibrant colors alight your skies.

Grab your hatchet, your chisel, for the love of all things bohemian, grab your dull fucking steak knife and get to hacking, for society is but a pie, begging to be eaten. Every last morsel.

Know this. The world has been Littered with Love, undoubtedly so. Thank you kind Father for denying consequence, enduring sufferance, commanding with belligerence, and granting us deliverance.

We will lie in this gutter proclaiming what is ours. Sweet Sweet Victory.

Use and be used.

Refuse.