Is anyone out there listening? Or reading my dung?
Dug in, heads low, faces bright with the reflection of hand held information delivery systems. Who would have thought they could escape through a surface a fraction of the size of their physical self? I guess what I mean is who would have thought they could be so contained and voluntarily affected by a compact device. Ever deadening, looking downward, not upward, or inward. Distraction is the thing. From what? we all have our own answer to that.
Yet, I expect you to possibly, read me, and hear me. The delivery of my voice through this conduit of isolation. Separate-together. My vanity requires validation, when this changes I will let you know. It would be nice to find a place to reside in that is not apathy, but carefree.
Please kill the messenger, as I contradict myself wonderfully and wistfully well.
I feel rather incoherent. Disjointed on a variety of fronts. Floating around on the breeze, without a place to fall or be let down onto. Safety. Fleeting. Safely. Fleeing.
I’m in between, amidst, and surrounded by a period characterized by malaise and uncertainty. I was chugging along there, and hit a few bumps that require a redefining of self. I didn’t expect it. Who does?
I think it is entirely possible to feel both blessed for the good things, and conflicted by the discomforts of living. That is the most human I can be. Striving for more experience, and learning to accept the order and disorder in varied amounts.
Perhaps this feeling will afford perspective.
i share as a measure of release. If i hold less staunchly, and articulate it away from me, perhaps I can heal.
Until that time, I’ll let the breeze carry me on a little bit more, and take solace in the ride whichever way it manifests.
“And they rode on in the friscalating dusklight.” – Wes Anderson in the character of Eli Cash, from The Royal Tenenbaums