titration

 

"lord almighty," i mutter, waking up to another greyed revolution of time.  "i'm still fucking here."

habit helps me locate a half cigarette from last night.  i smoke in a garden of violets, ferns, roses, dandelions, and horsetails.  it's the tiny world my tabby cat lingers in, her whimsical fur alight with wildness.  

this nation still exists.  so do those actively at war.  we humans forgot how to ask for help, and now bullies thrive in mad rule.

not to worry, though.  orca matriarchs are attacking great white sharks, and luxury yachts.  lions are killing child predators.  whales are dying onshore beside loved ones rather than abandon their sick and lost.  the creatures who go extinct are loved more in memory, and don't they know it?!  

pattern recognition is how i understand this matter of being.  i watch the metronome of life and decay with a grim curiosity, asking only that the truth tell on itself.  it's another day of knowing quietly; of keenly feeling hope's requiem.

however, the blue of sky returns to this orb of now, and hope, (while an oddly cheery belief,) contains a question.

except, i can't bring myself to ask.

oh, and sure, we can science out the psyches with crisp diagnosis, systemic society, and dopamine distractions, but damn be fucked if we ain't the emptiest generation.

humankind slaughtered God.  then remade God with our own images.  we forgot the I AM on purpose.  truth still waits, but it's out in the open, where hearts doubt, and souls consume each other alive.

the all-demanding virus of fear paralyzes our courage, ruins the goodness of grief, and hijacks our visions of one another as worthy.  hyperintellectualism and hyperindependence are the prescriptions for extinguishing the lights in your eyes.  that feral sparkle, destroyed by a tail-chasing alienation.

do these observations rankle in your skull, precious one?  

do you feel the patterns rioting amongst themselves?  

does the unasked question answer itself?

perhaps this is where the writer's illumination of dilemma segues into a need to fix.  perhaps comfort of reason ought to be provided.

naw.  i am one who grins at the gradual.  if being alive in a world of much and less has taught me, then playing hooky from immediacy is quite productive.