bits, pieces and a tiny (but tall) tale
An ode to poetic prettifications of reality, nodes of calcified bone knobbing my shoulders into boulders notwithstanding. Take a walk, a long hike off a short dike and dive into the deep end where transformations occur outside the mainstream, then when you return with seaweed twined in your hair, seawater streaming from your eyes, try to tell those lies again. Look, surly lurker, the work has already been done under the sun outside the purview of the purveyors of canned reality television billed as life.
The universe and everything goes on, whatever you may think about it.
You’re scaring me, carrying that heavy load on shoulders cobbled with knobbled bone, hobbling on your last legs, sucking down the dregs of a life which was never much but strife and struggle. Please, take care of you, because I can’t and neither can I live without your life burning in my ears, your heart beating in my brain like sanity itself.
How can the world end when friends like you huddle in my corner, cuddling cobwebs of confusion from my skin? I’m ready, waiting for divination, the truth behind the shadows cast by the last gasping fish on the line.
This is a truth exercise. Open the gates of mind to blinded bats flapping flabby wings from couch potato positions, exercising their thumbs while their perceptions grow numb from misuse. Following the bouncing ball only calls game players into your world, and since a game generally involves a villain and a victim, guess which you’ll get to be?
Those who make the rules call the shots, and if you fail to question your reality you will be trapped in it. That may be okay with you, but in case it isn’t, this is an escape clause, down the hatch into the dark.
So I went back to my island home, more alone than I had expected, for visiting can never be the same as belonging. Expecting blessings can backfire if beings in the basement hold their cards so close to their chests that your mind’s eye can’t see them.
I am still on the path to awakening the bits and pieces that float within my gravitational pull and claim to own my name and identity. What is self? What is me? If I had the answer to that, I would be rich and happy.
The patchwork princess toddled down the grassy path. She had escaped her minders for the moment and reveled in her unaccustomed freedom until a jewel-eyed dragon swooped low to scoop her into its taloned grip.
In its airy aerie overlooking the kingdom that her pauper parents struggled to maintain, surrounded by glittering gems and storied glories accumulated over many eons of thieving from her ancestors, the princess heaved an ironic sigh. She wished for size, strength and above all a sharp sword suitable for the slaying of dragons.
Eventually, she grew to forget and came to love her captor (as is common).