When we think we have it all, we don’t. There is no such a thing as perfect. It is all convoluted, it makes the perfect story but not a complete one. All is what life’s circumstances takes us. All is our live’s worth and not the imagine on that mirror. All is when we wake up and go to bed thanking the Lord for the air we breathe and that one more day. We are not perfect beings, pretending is a fallacy. We all have daemons, it comes in different shapes and forms. They lurk around at moments notice ranging fiercely as the storm next door. Some are able to escape through unscathed but others are at the mercy of the elements. Live life everyday people as if it was your last. Say your Amens. Be grateful for your existance! Prayers are needed, another creative genius gone too soon. RIP free spirit and adventurer. Wow, what am going to watch now? I was addicted to that show!
It comes like pollen, a lost bee on a single airplane engine perfurating the air, with tainted zest of a pistil of a flower. It soon finds its way into my soul, through the internodes, leaving the leaves paralyzed from the waist down. The aroma piles up like a test engine, the aircraft fume roling my overworked nostrils, a treat I long not to inhale. I delight on not wanting its drive to handicup my will, the thirst to submit my wagon into despair. I yearn to imped its way into my glory, decapitating the losen broken branches with a fury of a poisonous frog and yet, the butterflies manage to find their way up, crawling like intoxicated caterpillars at the sound of the church bell.
To say I am numb is an understatement, anesthetized by the switchable scotch tape left in the middle of the tamborine, naked like salty fish left unsalted. I want to scream but have no voice; the screws were left on the file cabinet. I want to react but I am frozen; the ice cube left on the kitchen counter refuses to melt. I want to be mad but can’t get myself to do it; I am stoic, left without fire. I want to forgive but I am too perflexed to even set the table; the utensils were left on the drawer. I want to wipe away the tears but can’t get past the hurt to do it; I am too dejected. So, I am bitter but it is not transcending as bitterness but as a cool and green avocado, the romaine salad on my plate. I am stuck, stupified, dumbfounded, left to say my Amen’s, all of the above bungled up into one basket of life is what you make it, so what? Keep going. I am lived and living but a believer.