When I open my front door it’s nice. My back door, nice. When I go into town, nice. Had pizza with Gavin at a pub this afternoon. Nice. Idk what media is doing. I do actually. But they can’t change my front door. My back door. Or my reality.
‘You can force calm in the eyes of hatred, if you’ve been there before.’ He stomped through the mud, listening to the moist sounds, his boots covered in layers of love. “And what’s the about?” asked the tree with the misshaped mouth. ‘Nothing.’ “And why were you there?” ‘I don’t know, but I’m ready for when I am again,’ and the stomping continued and the mud said nothing.
It’s the simple oddities, the altered and possibly even strange, that I enjoy most. Is this the road less traveled that Frost wrote of so long ago? Then again, long in who’s mind? That partial-swamp, the pathway leading deep into the woods, was itself before the words were written. And how strange for me to think those saplings are the new growth; two of which are already bent at the knees forever bowing to the less disadvantaged.
On the Sevens I look. Often, they look back. Sometimes when I’m driving I’ll catch a few of them waiting to be seen. And when they are, they are seen forever as a reminder; much like the reminder in the wind. Sometimes silent, the spirit is like that. So we watch the wind and how the movement of leaves push thought into a tangible something. It could even be a footprint. The one closest to the leaf that just landed and the traveling to the leaf brought a self to a new moment; when the clearing of the mind was set free. Pick up the leaf.
It’s raining outside. A heavy rain. And with it a feeling of release. I just sat there feeling very little. No pressure to do anything, but write. Finally. I gave myself permission to write. I’ve been telling myself to submit to publications, but I haven’t. My cell vibrated and a half hour passed, and while still on the phone, a text came in from a childhood friend. He told me my step-mother needed to hear my voice. She’s doing better, though. I said goodbye, replied to the text, “I will call her,” and my phone rang again. Same family member, needed to say more. I found myself remembering that I needed to go to the post office and just like that I was in my truck. It’s a mess outside. The rain won’t let up. I decided to grab some beer for when I got home to write. Inside the little store it wasn’t busy and I was the only one at the post office. Now I’m home. Looking out the window. It’s 11:57 AM. Not sure who’s going to call next. I owe lots of people phone calls and I’m not sure when I’ll get to it. But for now, I think I’ll shut everything off, and again, give myself permission to write.
I dislike fear mongering Hate tactics Manipulation The cover of the Narcissistic wings spreads far, so far indeed, that the puppets aren’t aware of their distasteful puppeteering, only that they’ve claimed salvation to the world.