(no subject)
Little loaf claims I ought not to be so positive.
A lifelong bane of others' insistence that my outlook was forever inclined t'ward the too negative, then this little loaf sees fit to tell me otherwise.
I'm pained (& pleased as punch) that I've deigned to acknowledge positivity amid this tendency to see only negativity, and while it may be construed as a dirty, muddied, possibly misdirected attempt at branching out from this ever juicy negativity, it brandishes a shred of love so scintillating that I can't possibly resist. I feast ravenously upon it with no real means to an end. I understand that.
All that can (willingly) change it is itself, not something (or somebody) else.
Extraneous to the present norm, no substance is sought in fickle fixations and fanciful fascinations. I fear no inclination to monkey see, monkey do.
The puckering expanse of paint under sun-drenched sky, though discolored, still tastes as sweet as the day they pressed the corners shy of the wall. Two heads and four hands rooted firmly to the ground - with their legs spread out before them at uncertain angles, as if through a fisheye lens. They look out upon the nothingness of the stretch ahead. This lovely little waste of time was not a time we considered wasted.
Little loaf has reprimanded me for seven years running, "It's disrespectful and offensive to say "fuck" and "fucking" so often."
Well, he knows where the darned toaster is.
I'd tell him as much if it would only penetrate:
"Make yourself useful! Feed me some substance once in a while, I'm near starved! Terminate your tired old solidarity of "we" and stick to your guns!"
(More likely to stick to your gums. Sticking to the teeth like a fleshy persimmon.)
Came here to piss and whine, but found evidence of myself spinning the yarn on yonder, under the old lock and key. Fairy tales & tattletales. Hate myself for it.
Misinformation & misrepresentation make me mad as hell, irrespective of prior intention.
With that prompt, I toppled down and up to the neck. No real use to resist.
Put it away and hoped I'd not pop the cork again 'til next year.
The days continue to recur, like the clouds in the sky and the bruises on my wrists.