My parents once told me something..
But I soon forgot, so I had to create my own rules, morals, and all things thereafter.
It's fine, though, because I remember that "people" consist of "persons" and that makes me one person in the midst of millions with a mind, with a wallet, and a cluttered calendar.
And if I conjured up one decent thing in that jumbled mess upon my tired shoulders, it's that it's better to see things in the mirror, or better yet, as a casted shadow; the skeletons of the things themselves seem a bit better/clearer. Why? Why not. Look at things from the inside out - what are the elements, how do you create, where is the core?..?
In the grand scheme of things, I'm me and you are you and you don't know you without me so these are matters that coagulate behind my aching brow and I've yet to swallow this vial of empty bitter pills.
I've driven safely and cautiously down this road of life/living/chaos, but no pre-production for such a trip will keep you from swerving straight into the brushes and cacti-ridden medians that seem to explode along the way and lunge thorny bodies into awaiting travelers.
And it's not the sun, mind you. The skin is like black market leather, draped across a candy apple Chevy with the hopes of better scenery.
I blame the nonsense of the government and wading in the tides of a collapsing economical infrastructure. Riding the coattails of the guilty, I am, and my suit is dirty and I clean it with tears of those aching hands of carpal tunnel clicks and types and sweaty palms bearing the signs of the coming storm.
And I blame, whimper, lick my paws, and I believe I represent you, let alone the world, when I say that outside screams the soundtrack of a cash register, phone chatter, and the turning and growling of a multitude of empty stomachs.
For years I've been trying to produce essays, books, notes, papers without using the world "I". Needless to say, it's impossible (for me). But at 11:11 I'll pray for things to be different. I juggle with the thought that maybe the amount of words is more important than the content.
I begin to see that my fingers are chicken-pecking rabble.
It's lonely in between bookends, mind you.
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