the grass talk.

“the grass is always greener somewhere else, man,” half smiling as he said it. i’m not sure if he was lying to himself. i wasn’t even sure that i didn’t believe him. he put his beer down and wiped the foam from his lips. we were sitting on a picnic table on some grungy roof of a bar in midtown. it was evening. we were drinking. we were bullshitting. like we do best.

“that’s the thing. there’s no grass here. literally. you have to go find it. who wants to live in a place where you have to go find ‘the grass,’ it simply just doesn’t exist organically like it does other places. i don’t think i’d be looking for grass elsewhere if i was aware to its existence all around me. metaphorically, of course.”

“dude, maybe if you didn’t smoke all of the grass there’d be more to appreciate.” we laughed hysterically.

“but seriously though, think about this ‘other side where the grass is always greener.’ that other side exists somewhere, right? we may not know where, but we know it has whatever it is we don’t have in our backyard right here. why don’t we just move along, keep traveling to find whatever it is the fuck we’re looking for.”

“yeah i see what you’re saying. but how are we supposed to get by? we can’t just keep packing up and moving on every few years. i mean, i’m sure we’d find paradise soon enough. we got our priorities right.” wasn’t that the truth. we would know paradise when we saw it. they say this idea of paradise is circumstantial to one’s own existence, their own experiences. my idea of it though, was pretty damn convincing.

“how’d we get by?” i laughed and reached for my beer. “same way we’ve been doing it all along, man. we always figure it out.”

“you’re right,” he paused for a few seconds, looking down in thought. we simultaneously emptied our glasses. “let’s get out of here. i have a headache.”

“i might have some grass for that.”

“perfect.”