24.
I don't like this aging business. I don't want to be like a fine wine. My youth isn't wasted enough for me to complain about the concept of it being wasted on the young. I just want to lay in my bed, with one pillow between my thighs and one under my head, idly dreaming about the nonsense that people dream about.
I don't care about the commitments I have to keep, the responsibilities I have to assume, the bricks I have to lay or the lies I have to tell. All I want is to find a clear valley with emerald grass that isn't too long, sunflowers growing all over it, with an azure sky overhead, puffy white clouds overcast and a golden sun suspended in stillness. I would then dig a hole and take a crap over some poor hare's subterranean lodging.
The last two weeks have been fabulous. The last month before that was extraordinary. The previous 23 years were excelsior.
As I scratch my way through an itchy scalp, without any sleep other than a light nap in the afternoon and without any sustenance other than a cup of very thin coffee, thinking of the words that can articulate the way I feel right now, I've come to the conclusion that I shouldn't really bother. Because I don't know what I'm feeling, and because I can't be arsed to find out why I can't put my knobby fingers on it.
The aforementioned knobby fingers could very well have picked up a pulse aeons ago. But there wasn't a pulse; however, despite the lack of a proof of life, the fingers kept searching until time stood still and Rasputin took out his thwang and whipped me with a great fury from on high.
And with that, I found myself back where I'd started. Staring down at my feet, with my hands rolled into balls of fists, ready to take on the day. And that's where I'm going to stand. Because I was given a pair of feet from a higher power that saw it fit to endow me with such a gift. And with this gift, I shall run.
Or at least stumble on to the next day.
There's no fruit more forbidden than the fruit at your feet.
And with that, all you'll be left with is:
Because there's nothing more divine-like than being alone and sucking it in.
I don't care about the commitments I have to keep, the responsibilities I have to assume, the bricks I have to lay or the lies I have to tell. All I want is to find a clear valley with emerald grass that isn't too long, sunflowers growing all over it, with an azure sky overhead, puffy white clouds overcast and a golden sun suspended in stillness. I would then dig a hole and take a crap over some poor hare's subterranean lodging.
The last two weeks have been fabulous. The last month before that was extraordinary. The previous 23 years were excelsior.
As I scratch my way through an itchy scalp, without any sleep other than a light nap in the afternoon and without any sustenance other than a cup of very thin coffee, thinking of the words that can articulate the way I feel right now, I've come to the conclusion that I shouldn't really bother. Because I don't know what I'm feeling, and because I can't be arsed to find out why I can't put my knobby fingers on it.
The aforementioned knobby fingers could very well have picked up a pulse aeons ago. But there wasn't a pulse; however, despite the lack of a proof of life, the fingers kept searching until time stood still and Rasputin took out his thwang and whipped me with a great fury from on high.
And with that, I found myself back where I'd started. Staring down at my feet, with my hands rolled into balls of fists, ready to take on the day. And that's where I'm going to stand. Because I was given a pair of feet from a higher power that saw it fit to endow me with such a gift. And with this gift, I shall run.
Or at least stumble on to the next day.
There's no fruit more forbidden than the fruit at your feet.
And with that, all you'll be left with is:
Because there's nothing more divine-like than being alone and sucking it in.
posted by funkyhippopotamus at
5:56:00 am
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