Like the owl of the camel barn, two big glassy eyes can convey the meditated ranges of boredom and silence can be the final axe.
I wept and I wept and I wept endlessly. Hiccuping I wept. Life’s choicest memorabilia was nothing but bulbs of cold pus, dotted in bitter memories. I do this often, feel lacerated, dismembered into smaller people, almost like elves jumping right out of the rib cage, one of which cannot stop weeping at what has been done and lost. I felt so little and there was nothing to do really. Just keep emptying pints of bitterness, hurling pots to flood the floor. It hardly feels any better.
It’s not only bitter, it’s burdensome. To write is burdensome, and to keep feeling that there are two worlds, one that you can and the other you cannot describe in any code, image, syllable, and that you've scrambled to the highest corner of the former while your round head hits an impasse at the corner of the glass ceiling where three dimensions of mundane livelihood meet, now that is an impasse.
Also how the only thing in life worth learning, mastering, reveling and melting in easily is observation. Of me who thought words were my weapon, think again is necessary when you meet an army of other word-blasting debacles, slicing like carrots and flying like tiny plastic discs.
Someone must find what the lotus inspired, quick.
