the days are
mixtures: thought, nonthought, comfort, discomfort, filled, empty, lonely,
appeased. most tell us to get a routine, a hobby, a career. most are involved
with activities, if left desolate, most will crumble. thinking of mother—she was
never in a good space—her condition was sad. much has influenced me. as
attempting to make right by behavior. as trying to distance, remaining nearby.
there’re dust
mites on the floor. someone, mainly me, needs to mop. there’re many spiders,
leaping spiders, weirder looking bugs.
I won't use, “shattered
dreams,” it’s not so severe, I just need excellence—from an in-excellent force.
(pure animation.) many times two are close, many times souls are enamored, with
some element inside. I might surmise—the mind finds ease, to discredit
comforts.
am I aloft in
saying, Most of us want to feel desired, elated, human rapture? some
must have persistence.
the kitchen is a
mess. I discarded the magazines. I’m drinking too much water. I keep looking at
a bottle of wine from Trader Joe’s—it isn’t noon yet! does it matter? of
course, it does.
some arts go too
far. a psychologist might agree: too much is a problem.
I light a mini
cigar, I take a long drag, I put it down—to do another rep. plain demented. poor
heart!
the couch is
cluttered—all of my shirts, soon, she will bring it up again.
I try to
articulate some property taking form inside—an emotion that sits. it’s slightly
annoyed, neither left nor right, just watching for activities. it seems to
desire against its nature, while abiding in alignment with temperament, still,
unsettled by many activities.
I said it before, I
was shocked, a preacher screamed against everything—was found doing everything.
the restroom is
clean, aside for the floor, I’m behind on my duties. I stand, looking down,
summonsing motivation.
