depiction3

On a bus heading west Daisy squints her eyes in the bright and taunting glare of the setting sun. It�s like a boy she knows, beautiful but almost too painful to behold for long. But he wasn�t a true sunset he was more like a seashell, intricate and twisted, full of holes that you only could see close up, with a hidden inside that even he couldn�t fully understand. He was a seashell, and he had told Daisy that he would sleep in the sand with her. As Daisy rethought that statement, she had assumed that the sand to which her referred was on the same beach she sought, but he was just playing with Tonka trucks in a wooden box in somebody else�s backyard. Daisy couldn�t believe she had ever been so trusting, not only of him, but of others, she had always figured that everyone she met was intent on doing good, not on getting a free ride. She was too wrapped up in the human experience to have regard for long term survival. The sun�s beams spilled anxiously out of the cracks and breaks in the flat and tired clouds. It was amazing: no matter where Daisy was, around the world, each day she would have the option of watching the sun go down. Every evening, without fail the sun will sink beneath the horizon and darkness and starlight will slowly seep in. In dusty cities, shiny cornfields, and on glossy lakes high in the mountains, the sun will always set. Daisy depended on the consistency of the universe and the questions that she needed answered to keep her forging on, sometimes walking, sometimes running, but always moving forward.

Daisy was entranced by the hip scene, in the fact that everywhere she went it was different. She knew some people who drank in meadows under the stars, and others who mingled in smoky bars under the yellow lights hanging from the low ceilings. Daisy had found it in coffeeshops with bright walls and strange paintings, and in city parks with monuments and fountains, the hip scene was everywhere, marijuana and ecstasy floated about infiltrating America�s restless youth. Everyone was secretly searching for something, maybe even trying only to escape the gloom and redundancy of reality. For many people drugs seemed to be an easy way to forget everyday life, and just fell their way to adventure, or maybe to a new understanding of self. In any case Daisy observed that the vast majority of people who plug into the hip circuit either use or abuse substances. Each person has their own excuse or reason, but the more they justify themselves to Daisy the more certain she is that the are out of control or simply chemically dependent. Those who strictly partake in ganja do not bother Daisy at all, she sees it as a piece of the earth that inhabitants should obviously utilize. Even when used in excess, nature seems to intervene: as one indulges more and more, the reaction becomes less and less satisfying, nature will not allow itself to be abused. The numerous addictive and potentially fatal items are the ones that continue to worry Daisy no matter how many times she bears witness to their use. Cocaine, even the name seems sharp and cold, like a sheet of ice with a glittery frost resting on its surface. Meth, a strange name for an energetic potion that runs through ones veins and kills them slowly. Even ecstasy seems like a harsh photograph of a phony smile. WHY? Why does everyone turn to outside forces to find what�s inside of them? Why don�t they just sit back and meditate on what they are seeking? They might find whatever it is much more easily with a clear head. The deeper Daisy pierced the hip circuit, the more bewildered and disappointed she became, she was too wearied by it�s social complexities and self-crowned royalty to take it all seriously. There were also intellectual circles, where people saw themselves as individuals, but often tried so hard to not conform that they became the mainstream notion of a non-conformist. People who knew themselves well were few and far between; Daisy has intentions of finding a place where these people were abundant and genuine.

College girls with smooth skin and clothes from Old Navy flooded the cities with an air of contentment. They were the new American dream, upwardly mobile and female, about to overtake the man�s world. These girls impressed Daisy, they always looked put together and confident, comfortable with their place in the quickly changing world. There was no use in pretending not to notice them these girls were everywhere. Although they were of an elevated class they often spoke with a humble tone and seemed to respect even the most confusing intentions.

Daisy could no longer sleep comfortably. She would find her bed by four AM and usually sleep until ten or eleven, she hadn�t always been this way. Daisy had once loved to sleep and had slept for sixteen hours of the day in the past. Now it just seemed like a poor usage of time. How could she justify spending hours and hours of each day sleeping when she could be doing something more constructive? It seemed that sleep was an utter waste.

Once Daisy had felt connected to a boy on a train. It had been a rainy day and it was cold by the evening when she boarded. Daisy�s arms had been covered in goosebumps and her hair was damp and matted, she stepped onto the train and felt a wave of emotion, she was almost in tears. Each pair of seats held at least one occupant, so Daisy sat beside a boy whose energy charged a golden yellow around his head. She said not a word and concealed her eyes by keeping her tweed hat tipped low. Daisy tried to keep quiet, but tears ran down her cheeks and her lower lip trembled like her hands usually did. She wiped her face carefully and became aware of a low gasping, almost even choking noise. Daisy tipped her hat up and turned towards the boy with the golden aura, he was crying, their eyes met and Daisy felt the force of his mind enveloping her body. They never spoke and never touched but there was an understanding. They both knew about it and were each a part of it.