“Objectification”

In my life, I’ve found, lots of things are just objectification. Like if a girl sits next to me after my shift and has a beer, what matters is just that a girl is sitting there, or if she says something to me and laughs, what matters is this quantifiable tidbit. But people can give each other, also, things that are mystical, which complicates the extent to which relationships are actually objective — the source of the value’s assignment is, in fact, just a feeling. And though it’s wrong to objectify, better to remain open-minded and patient, plausible to new, uncharted sources of simple, unmonitored happiness, I find myself sometimes wanting objective things, though they be laced with visions, visions of the number 16 hole at the golf course, with its big, invincible rolling hills, and vision of the fact that many are dead, and that I myself could be dead, many times over. Visions of things happening to us, as they happen to our planet, the polluted river echoing the sunshine because it’s all it can do. Our nerve endings approaching and singing a sonata to the day, which is beheld cleanly. The potential for growth and flourish into an infinite amount of things, of beings. We make eyes with the number 16 fairway, but garner each other, and sometimes what is sought is just having a luminescent hand directing you.