Thursday, September 7, 2017

Blya-blya-blya

     I could write about my emotions concerning atrocious punctuation in a letter I'd received from our kid's school. Or about women who love to hug you just to force their perfume memory on you for the beginning of eternity. And I always want to write about egos - someone else's, of course, how unconscious they all are. Flies and mosquitoes are another unnerving topic, as I stare at my own annoyance, battling mental exhaustion. But would any of it do any good? And what kind of a question is that in the first place?
     Do you want to do good? What do you want to do with your life? Are you going to have regrets about doing nothing at the curtain's draw? What is a regret, where is its source? It is easier to forgive or erase from memory? If I simply watch my thoughts and patterns, I am being proactive? In other words, am I evolving? What does that even mean? Why I am dissatisfied with all aspects of my life at the moment? What is all this mush in my head? Why can't I seem to find a jiffy to breathe and clear, to see myself, to be myself?
     Every day I am bombarded by opinions not my own. Like advertisements, without my permission, bits of information rip through my material life and imbed themselves, tick-like, in my sluggish body. What do I want?! Where do I stand? I want to scream, to push, explode, tear, bleed, dance with chaos, destroy. And then I want to calm and create anew. From scratch. Like a Goddess. A Big Bang.


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