Playing God

I usually try to write to an interested audience, I’d explain and introduce the whims and sullies of my day, footnote the lived experience with blooming thoughts from a limited worldview. I don’t know what the point of this entry is, it certainly isn’t the summary of 11th of November, nor are these sparks that keep flying- those that you have to immediately record or will disapppear into the horizons of a harried mind. This entry is layered word after word, sentence piling upon sentence all in a wish, to find and express an undiscovered thought, one that will only appear after a reasonable body of text accumulates.  To write is to become. IThese are my pleasures- the undeclared meaning in the written word. Ocassionally I’d indulge in these. These entries are perhaps least attractive to any interested audience seeking digestable takeaways. These entries are intensely personal, yet they are recorded here, in the public eye, for good reason. I’d never say they were entirely for you to read. No, they fulfil my need for you to read. Any of you. Everyone of you. Read what? All of this. You read to pass the time. Today is a passable day.  A day for reviewing memories, not making memories. A day where work doesn’t threaten to engulf, but doesn’t leave you enough. A day where loved ones are near, but not heard, nor spoken to. A day I’ve missed and let miss. Signing out. Period.

Filed under: musings

blinking heart

Here’s a sneeze. Someone’s random wish–or a bothersome allergy? If someone’s random wish- who would it be, and for what reason, the pricze of a sneeze?

To this I ponder the ABCs.

A- I left (them:himher) a not too memory- not unpleasant: a warm glow in the recent drawers of the front-row cupboard -unpleasant: a stray thought first, and then a burgeoning corn I become.

B- My image is evoked amongst other thoughtful associations in the long eventful hours of a day, note: I am nothing much, nothing less, I could be functional utility.

C- I am the curator of awaited admiration, affection, obsession, the pirate’s plank of reasonable restraint, or?

A bothersome allergy. Born of me, and born by me.

I’ll have to wait for another sneeze.

…

..

.

And still not know.

Filed under: heartaches, quirks, written word