Posts in "Thoughts" Category — Page 2

An Introduction

I am afraid of being a copycat; I am a scaredy-cat copycat!

And yet, this word/world has called me and pulled me close (sweet-n-safe breath, an almost-kiss square on my lips).

Drabble. I thought I knew his game – chitter-chatter prattle, purpose-less.

Wrong guy, she says. Drabble is not Drivel. She properly introduces us.

Drabble is different. Flexible and free, but with holding structure. No games. No exhausting ambiguity.

EXACTITUDE [100 words].

She says that she will be with him every day in May. I want to too.

How can there be enough to go around?

Just play friendly. Source:

http://somethingkaty.blogspot.com/2019/05/definition.html

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Sour Grapes

I have been locked out of my blog. The tragedy lies in the identity of the culprit.

I cannot join the chorus of complaints about middling web hosting services and technological glitches; not even can I lay the blame at the corporate feet of the perennially incompetent Time Warner Cable. I haven’t any tales of Prim infiltration by Putin’s Russian hackers. No, I am the problem. My choking perfectionism precludes me from even making a start.

I soothe the pain of procrastination, of abandoned passion, with mental manipulation, my favorite being that I am not meant to be a writer. Negating my history—my absence of memory sans the written word, my first grade story writing, the engraving of words upon my mind—I tell myself that this writing thing is but a folly. Worse, I may even want to be a writer purely for ego gratification, for the cool and the cred of the writer image.

My excuses are but crippling untruths.  I am sad living without writing.

I want to let myself back in.

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Last Words

Some accuse me of morbidity, their assertion supported by a scaffold of dark twigs; my fondness for cemeteries and storms, my ubiquitous clothing choice in the color without color, my reliance upon heavy literature, my collection of dying words. I wish that I might lend them my lens, an owl bestowing her nighttime sight to the worshippers of the sun, that they might see beyond the limits of labels to the radiant core of all—Beauty.

Who is it? Who is it?
~Billy the Kid

Does nobody understand?
~James Joyce

The sadness will last forever.
~Vincent van Gogh

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Wait and Hope

I am the spoiler who loves a rainy day. And yet, I find myself wearied by this February grey. A Miss Havisham grey, wasting and unforgiving, a punitive grey intent upon freezing time so as to preserve pain.

While I sit, hypnotized by outside gloom (introspecting, yet outside of Presence), a teacher appears. Eleven buds materialize on a single orchid stem in my office.

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Beauty

“Hello, I’m a fat person, fat, fat, fat,” gibes a six-year-old girl playing with the new concept curvy Barbie doll at Mattel headquarters. The girl’s focus group peers bolster her audacity with laughter.

“She didn’t like going to school because she was bullied. She was telling me that girls were saying she was fat and talking about her scars from her transplant.” The mother of Nicole Lovell, a thirteen year old girl murdered by an accused Virginia Tech student whom she had met online, added that Nicole often cried, asking to stay home from school.

We have been duped. The usurpation of Beauty by our obsession with physical beauty is insanity. We have bowed to the moon and proclaimed it the Universe, living in darkness sans perspective, worshipping the tiny moon of a single planet, unconscious of stars and galaxies, estranged even from the warmth and light of our own Sun. We have made the temporal flesh our master and under its relentless rule our children suffer; we all suffer.

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