Popping the zits of my self-loathing under flourescent lights

I'm trying to find beauty in every day. Like now, as I'm sitting next to a fishtank bubbling like someone urinating into a toilet, and the street outside is lit by eerie jaundiced light in the silence of 2 AM. The hippie store across the street that smells like patchouli from the sidewalk has a neon green "VOTE!" sign in its window. This whole place -- this apartment, this town, this state -- gives me a sour feeling sometimes, like I drank too much on an empty stomach, but there are still so many beautiful things: Leaves rolling like rain across the pavement during poetry class; the tiny left hands traced shakily in black marker onto a "WE WELCOME GOD INTO OUR HEARTS" white-paper banner in the basement of the church where I learn about gothic literature; growing up slowly like coffee drooling into a pot, drop by drop; the trees growing bare as a ballerina's skinny chicken-wing shoulder blades as she slides her leotard off her shoulders; the taste of milk 25 minutes out of the refrigerator from a red solo cup on a nightstand.

( Last night I felt like myself for the first time in a very long time... )