"We are born empty, to later be made full."
Perhaps, but, full of what?
Who maintains possession over that click-clacking skeleton finger, a steely arched digit pointing toward the heavens only to skillfully–artfully– direct it laterally back down and across the circumference of this green Earth to make that ultimate decision?
At what point are we too full of a mish-mash of right and wrong, mostly thrown together over a mid-afternoon fricassee, to allow our cerebellum to ventilate a swirling of desire and destiny and form our own sort of internal treaty?
There is no you. There is only you.
There is no we. There is only we.
There is no now.
Would if we could wretch up those violently self-serving considerations and shit out those misrepresented ideals, only to achieve a sort of mental bulimia that fills us with the hollow “doom-doom” of an aching unrest.
We binge on what ails us and we purge the rest.
"At this age there’s not much worse than still being right"
and this is what I told myself on those long winter nights;
That the dark is not so bad when you know it by name.
ritajill said: Silly kitty
I’m a big bad ginger wolf, you’re the silly kitty! But, I know you know this already.