They Come from Pockets

What fine aspirations one has for their offspring.

To subconsciously think beyond oneself, thirsting for moments of intense pleasure to create beings that have similar genetic makeup. Naturally, one is provided the opportunity to carry forth the new being through a fairly lengthy process, until the bun in the oven is ready to breathe on it's own and spread it's sweet and salty signature out to the world.

Out comes the mite, reliant on parent(s) for daily upkeep and providing said parent(s) with an organically cyclical process of intake, outtake and rest.

Eventually offspring springs forth and creates havoc for grandparent(s) who have begun to struggle to keep up themselves, let alone with a tiny sputtering capsule of their own DNA.

The child takes in immense amounts of data (and milk) from two feet, three feet, four off the ground. Eyes, ears and mouth receive bits and begin to process while sputtering out garble to babel to jargon to balderdash.

Image courtesy, via CC

Many of these little people come from pockets. Secret lairs of comfort, perhaps a home or a shire, some set deep within the urban jungles, others an outer fringe or wilderness (all of which have their own "wild things", "secret gardens" and "haunted forests".)


Eventually, they venture off, resilient little vessels of innocence, replicated clones with varying degrees of differences that expand slightly outward with nourishment. The gaps to be infilled with new experience, then perhaps capped or sugarcoated with nonsense.

The parents watch with awareness for how their aspirations are playing out. As kids begin to be influenced more-so by each other than the parents themselves. Yet the folks see what may or may not be and wander towards wonder…

For these little aspirations, the human race has already begun, too bad it soon starts to get overly focused and so darn serious.