Conundrums!

Nothing but ‘conundrums’,  tactile songs of life,  hurt and death.   Mutilated dreams.  A side ward leap (of all kinds).   Brushing our teeth,  falling hair,  and the snowfall that comes or not.    Happy with changes,  chains of our own devices and external visages.  Looking in the mirror is not a vision of validation, but a portrait of someone else.

No cat cries or the crows feet that becomes whatever we wish  them to be.   Hills and valleys with slow-leaking dreams,  that are shuttered, squared and soon forgotten.  Past lives and artist pallets smeared by the weight of philosophy and the cottony clouds of faith.  God as fast-food or a mooring point of transcendental being.  Like a train going faster downhill, and the clambering effort to find ourselves,  between tragedy and a still pond.  Heights and Success and a   Frisbee, thrown from a rooftop, like a drone with no purpose falling to the ground, eschewing the literal from autism s.

Finally the Borealis Rainbows, a taciturn goblin, shedding Peacock wings, like a cat’s meow.  I blow by stops, I raise above the ether into orbit, rising from antiquity, with a somber soliloquy and beds of finality,. with shocks and snares of frightful stares.  Epic in peace, painfulness no more.

“The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.”
― Elie Wiesel

Mistakes, comas and period.  The end

Forever gone.

Larry Olson….

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Everyone keeps telling me that time heals all wounds, but no one can tell me what I’m supposed to do right now. Right now I can’t sleep. It’s right now that I can’t eat. Right now I still hear his voice and sense his presence even though I know he’s not here. Right now all I seem to do is cry. I know all about time and wounds healing, but even if I had all the time in the world, I still don’t know what to do with all this hurt right now.”
― Nina Guilbeau, Too Many Sisters

A fish downstream.

Remember, a dead fish can flow downstream, but it takes a live one to swim upstream.
W.C.  Fields

The War of the Worlds inside my mind.    Anxiety and Depression on one side,  Seizures and Epilepsy, on the other.  Like a nation,  in the midst of battle, participants languish there,  while politicians ponder the narratives.

An excuse to gloss over the  acts of war.    Inside my brain,  little battles rapidly coalesce .  The net effect being like a lost street, now overgrown.  Confusion,  malaise and the lost synapses, brooding in contempt for each other.

 

Between anti-convulsants and pills for depression,  my anxiety,  like a bastard knife ,  penetrates my thoughts. The anxiety causes depression and I float along, until a seizure or the waves of confusion awaken to the thrust of reality,   into the middle of a battle. A place, I cannot identify.

Stars are no good,  for navigation.  They mix like a cup of Alphabet soap.  In there somewhere, I am. Groggily picking my way.  Upstream or down,  I cannot tell.   On this planet,    I dwell wearily.

Larry, 19–