This week has already brought three changes of scene; another lying - nay, shuffling, in wait.
It is always this way, is it not? Ebb and flow, surplus and deficit, wanting and wasting. But even with the exaggerated misanthropy that seems to wrestle my present: each letting the other win; even with the endless (if not tireless) movement on feet (being only carriage); even then. How to stroll away from this box, this room, this universe of one's own?
Why do we cling when tomorrow we will not know one other? What does it matter if you have too much or too little of everything and nothing or the reverse? To be calm, to not be obtuse. To be firm, to not be stubborn. To love, to not crave. To seek happiness, and finding it, to accept happiness. To stay, to stay, to stay.
I could tell you that my heart shattered into seven hundred and twenty-three perfect pieces of pale blue crystal today. I could tell you that's just how it was, my tungsten wore out and decided to leap. I could tell you that when it happened it was frost, it was gall, it was midnight, it was innards strung up with steel wool.
But my heart (bless the little fellow); it no longer plays those parts. Its response to these sudden death changes in script (indicated by that fatal ka-ching!) is a mildly annoyed and mostly bored puff of smoke that spirals and spells 'Next, please' on my face; on my hands.
It is always this way, is it not? Ebb and flow, surplus and deficit, wanting and wasting. But even with the exaggerated misanthropy that seems to wrestle my present: each letting the other win; even with the endless (if not tireless) movement on feet (being only carriage); even then. How to stroll away from this box, this room, this universe of one's own?
Why do we cling when tomorrow we will not know one other? What does it matter if you have too much or too little of everything and nothing or the reverse? To be calm, to not be obtuse. To be firm, to not be stubborn. To love, to not crave. To seek happiness, and finding it, to accept happiness. To stay, to stay, to stay.
I could tell you that my heart shattered into seven hundred and twenty-three perfect pieces of pale blue crystal today. I could tell you that's just how it was, my tungsten wore out and decided to leap. I could tell you that when it happened it was frost, it was gall, it was midnight, it was innards strung up with steel wool.
But my heart (bless the little fellow); it no longer plays those parts. Its response to these sudden death changes in script (indicated by that fatal ka-ching!) is a mildly annoyed and mostly bored puff of smoke that spirals and spells 'Next, please' on my face; on my hands.
