Puddles

We walk in the cold crisp air, with frozen hands and feet crunching the grass unfeeling. The dog clatters around us, bounding through bushes and fences, barking at his contemporaries. What is it like to be a man? Let us be honest here, let's leave the preening and the posturing of the peacock generation, let's talk about being a man in an age of football, tits and lager; of loaded, nuts and maxim. We have become the vacuous, our commercial break of an attention span leaving us free to chase skirt like our tails and fill our lives with white noise, drowning out any meaning the natural throws our way. I am very very shallow. Looks and statistics are really most of the battle for me. And I'd love to be open and honest about this, to just come clean about this to my loved one. But, the problem is, I'm just too shallow. It's a very vicious circle you see. But lay not your judgment at my doorstep, because let us be realists: it is the common man these days whose soul is so slight. Men are like puddles, the weaker of us like leftover sprinkles of a summer shower, the more well-rounded like pools of roadside water washed down in torrents of downpour, but, and here lies the rub, neither of us have depth. Some of us we know this, and we spend our time reconciling ourselves to this skin-deep soul, discovering our inner puddle. The others are still kidding themselves, they stare into that reflection gazing at the moon and pretending they have the sky in there. We walk in the cold crisp air.