Tiny Oranges

We often wonder if we’re loved enough by our peers or anyone around us. We ponder on this subject in many different forms. Some at work, some at home. Either way, we do crave it like passion that we hold more dearly than most would like to admit. Some might say that we shouldn’t demand this sort of respect, that it must be earned, but I disagree.

Think about the people that you would be inclined to give you this compassion. Who loves them? They also wonder if anyone loves them. They do, wither they’re married or have many friends. They step in front of the mirror and size up what they have, and a humble person wouldn’t have much to say for themselves. It’s about time we speak for them.

Sometimes I feel like I would be happy to be a poor writer, that wanting to be rich is a cliche. How my father thinks that because he brings home money, he's a good man. I often think that anything he has to say is garbage and should be tossed out the window like an old ham. Well, wanting to be rich is a cliche, and my father is a fool, but also, and I don't say this often, I am wrong. However my step-mother is the variable here. She makes it all make sense.

I was sitting in my room, reading a book and eating oranges. They are the small oranges, same taste, very appetizing, and yet obviously not near as filling. I ate several of these oranges and hence had quite a large pile of peels. While I was taking the pile of peels to the garbage, I thought about how many of them I had eaten, how my step-mom bought them not for me, not for herself, but for everyone.

The thought was abrupt and disputed by the idea that it doesn’t matter what she buys, my father gave her the money to buy them and it’s her role of the house anyway. It’s her job. Then I decided that before I went to bed, I was going to have a cigarette, much like I always do. Oh how I love to destroy myself. This is the place where I thought very vile like and selfishly.

Smoking my cigarette, I stood there thinking heavily like I always do; Always austere and clustered patterns of thoughts, arguing with each other in a very back-and-forth contradicting matter. I thought more about if becoming more organized in my day to day might make me less cluttered in my head, like they say in that cliche, but artists are prone to having cluttered heads; How artists paint such brilliant abstract work. How I want to be cluttered for art, and also how I want to be organized for more traditional values. How I want to be able to please others, and how I don’t want to please others at all.

Then, out there in the freezing cold, putting out my cigarette, I saw another orange. I thought to myself “Helll ya, another orange, and it’s cold. Thaaank you whoever put this delightful fruit in my path”. My step-mother, Linda put it there. I took the fruit and I put it in my pocket and realized something.... good. Linda bought these oranges because she knows that me and her kids adore them. They’re tiny and delicious, what’s not to love about them.

Then she wakes up everyday and cleans up after their orange peels, and every other mess anyone else has made. That’s her job? She might not have a hard job to do and she gets to work from home, but her job is to clean up after everyone. Who cleans up after Linda? She does.

I see orange peels left around in the kitchen and the living room. Should I clean these up? Nope. I’m an artist and that would be too organized for me; wouldn’t want to compromise my artiste. She can clean it up. That’s her job. She might get sick of these oranges and not buy them anymore, that’s her problem. My father might say that she's a good woman for cleaning up after him and it shows good character, she must feel good about how fucking great she is at cleaning up his house. Good thing she's around to clean up, nothing might get done. That's why he keeps her around.

“Come on” I shouted at myself in my head. “Quit being such a fucking loser. You’re being a bastard. You are.” So I cleaned up the kids’ orange peels. Not saying this in pride; I’m still pretty pissed at my hesitation. I’m just glad I learned something.

It’s when we stop thinking of ourselves and start thinking hard about the roles of others, that’s when we realize the most about ourselves. That’s when we figure out what just may help us out. To love, then be loved. So now I’ll go to bed and feel like I accomplished turning atleast one stone.
Funny how I turn cleaning up after ourselves into a big epiphany. I have to have an epiphany before I can do the smallest things.