Sometimes, as a writer, I live in a world of my own. I appear to breathe the same air and see the same sights as others, but ultimately, I'm alone and secluded in my own reverie not really seeing what happens around me. I hear things on a delayed timer seeing the emotions play across a face before the words come to full realization. I watch things in slow motion knowing what will happen, but still surprised by the events. Detached from myself, I see my movements, and hear my words as if listening and watching through a screen. The wings of a hummingbird occasionally slow down and I can hear each beat.

Someone calls my name and I snap into reality with a sigh. The world resumes around me and my moment of peace is gone.

There are days when the monster wants to appear--when the world can just go to hell as far as I'm concerned and I want to rip out all their intestines and leave them to dry in the sun. There are days when I think the world is not worth the time and the effort to stoop to acknowledging the presence of other beings. Days when I would give anything to be without conscience or feeling. Days when I wish I could destroy all with one sweep of my hand. Days when I wish I were justice personified.

And there are days when I wish I were Mercy.

Thank you very much, Landro, for your insights. Knowing that you are a dirty old man, and occasionally laughing at you continuously "hitting" on me, I enjoy the fact that you can be serious when you want to be.

Occasionally I become too introspective, and judgemental. I have to be reminded that life can be fun, and cheery. So, you continue to be occasionally serious, and I'll continue to be occasionally fun.

/hug

The insanity of humanity faces all of us at some point. Some of us are lucky enough, or blessed enough to have friends who will help us through it no matter how often that point occurs. Still, it makes me wonder why this insanity exists. Surely the world would be a better place without senseless violence and mental disease. Why do we not have the power to cure it? Why can't we be in charge of our own lives and not prey to the disorders of others? Why is it that the worst situations are those that are forced upon us by the actions of those who purport to love us? And what does this do to our sense of identity and self-worth?

Would it not be easier to all those involved to speak kindly, to give freely, to love completely without the strings, and anger and bitterness that those positive emotions seem to invoke? The counter productiveness of love is becoming ever clearer to me.

Last I checked, running out of gas on the highway with no cell phone when the temperature is about 30 degrees was a bad thing. Nonetheless, that is, indeed, how I spent most of my Saturday morning. That and scrambling for money that I had forgotten I didn't have with me, and trying, desparately, to remember my PIN number for my ATM card--and failing. But lunch with Lisa and Jessica at the Mudhouse helped make up for it. So did seeing 2 my friends. Both of whom I haven't seen for a very long time. One of them is my mentor and very good friend and one of the most beautiful women on earth. I was very happy to see both of them.

Alas, seeing my friends still did not alleviate the fact that I need to get my car fixed. /Sigh. I suppose I will have to check on that Monday afternoon.

Things Forgotten

You forgot to tell me I could live without you
And when the time came you weren’t there
Walking along empty streets
Alone
In a room
With a crowd
You forgot to say I could breathe in the morning
Opening eyes to the sun
Awake
In the dark
Under blankets
You forgot to tell me I would remember
Tracing lines in the sand
Your hand
Under mine
Guiding

Ok, I'm liking the template I have for my blog, but I can't seem to change it for my archives. Does anyone know what I should do?