Choose your alter.
It is Saturday afternoon, a flood of brinesanity abounds with thoughts of a celebration with friends, a small gathering in humility and jest, to think about the path that has been walked in the last 8 years, once considered fully, closer to fifteen than ten.
The riddles are not fascinations or gyrations of the mind, they are the semblance of a soul that has been feeling the cold of an ice that dawned on his short life for a period of time that could not be measured. Fish do not tell time, they have a hard enough time trying to just survive.
Kind of like a man made of feta.
Through all of it, in this murky brine.
There is a lot happening in the life, and there is a lot happening in yours. Spending all of it behind a screen to hide from the harsh cancer, and cancers in fact, that permeate the mind – no longer a tolerance for the side that has to follow any diction or reason according to the anonymous waves of fiction and fantasy that are abound.
The new currency is honest, and forthright integrity of acknowledgement of actions that may have been poor decisions, but we all make them, and I can stand by the ones I have made as lessons, and living.
To be alive, to know – one. Self.
A glorious thing.
Like a fish you think you understand because of a snippet of verbal diarrhea that was snapped up as fodder, and perhaps a glance into a water that holds tides and the essence of life for another?
Truly wonderful, to be stalked.
To swim in the orange grass man.