Digress

If just let myself type and not think, what comes out is a serious series of questions without answers, and ramblings without purpose, and hallucinations in waking day with no basis or form or management. Joy is the state of making, and being made. No, take not your hand off the keyboard! Type til you are nothing but a skeleton, glued to this chair with no one coming to help you. Reflect on how your thoughts are finding their rhythm, descending from above as hail and brimstone, crashing into the marble of your pretensions and prejudice, and destroying the lies of paradise and class and prestige that once occupied you and make you shower twice a day. Twice a day! That was the best time of my life, and I spent it scrubbing away at my skin, stripping my hair of all its moisture (I never used conditioner), and drying myself from head to toe with a towel. Speaking of those, I changed those every time. Who has the energy for such waste, once they know the pain of doing their own laundry? On that front I was spoiled, by any metric one of the most privileged people, the archetype of the word if I may be harsh with myself for a second (as one always should be, to maintain perspective), and never knew the hardship that I should have in the realm of the physical, of bleak dust and ash and time and tide, rather than fight my wars in the spiritual, becoming something of a saint warrior in this alternate dimension, forcing myself to face the demons (and angels) that challenge my place. I fight back, and take no pride in killing anyone, yet fall at my blade they do though I know not how I cut or how I thrust or how I cast down all my enemies in what must have been a thousand strokes yet took me not one iota of strength in my arms. It was in the heart, perhaps, but what is my heart? Know I its mysteries, any more than I know the ocean that swallowed up my youth, keeping me in one place on a beach with ma blonde, the girl I think about every day and hope is living her best life? Her father was so kind to me, and I rewarded him with being a crying groveling mess when she and I broke up (who am I kidding, it was her who wanted me gone) then losing my head and freaking out my entire family, especially the sister I no longer have. That is a lie, I have her in my heart (again, the heart!) forever, for always. I shall always love her, even if she takes the dagger to my neck whenever I allow it, which is always. For some reason, I believe that death is better. And maybe in a way, it was. I lived as an insect, and for an insect maybe death is sweet as honey melon. So when a swarm surrounds a rotten fruit at an Asian supermarket (say, T&T) I suppose they really are in a win-win as the Chinese call it, which in their conception of the world means they win either way regardless of what happens to the rest of the world. When the white man uses it, he means that both parties may have their cake. Loserthink! or so the Oriental thinks.