My word soup that was “Waiting in Line” was lukewarmly delivered, and I’m launched into a spiral of… self-moderation.
Actually, this is character development. Yay me.
At least I now comfortably admit that each time I step on stage, it is for no small part to be seen, though that desire is always jumbled, mercurial and discomfit – too much aplomb, and I would blush tongue-tied. Too little, I am blushed and tongue-tied still.
Vanities, all is vanities and vexation of spirit!
For all the defects to which I am predisposed, ego is the most insidious. It is, to paraphrase some philosopher somewhere, woven into the fabric that is me, if not deeper, topographical – like the grooves and fault-lines and weak dirt that weather into rivers, and chasms, and mountains of our imperfect selves.
Yes, ego. I have a hard time admitting that I want things. And I have a hard time admitting that I have a hard time admitting that I want things. Now I’m admitting it, so… growth.
In this case what I want is an audience. It need not be a convocation: one or two attentive souls will suffice so that I know I exist outside of the singular pronoun.
Nevertheless, I persist, and I write, and I spew words, and I tango and I tangle. Like that old shibboleth says, fart, fart my lovies to your butts’ content, fart like no one is smelling.
I think it’s because, grandiloquence aside, I’m not that relatable. I am somewhat jaundiced at folks’ breathy ability to emote matters of love and lust and human affairs. These things are as far away as dust from sunrise. I am a bullfrog spying on dragonflies 69ning.
I think my isolation is taking its toll now that I have reclaimed my predilection for silence. The world has become all too insufferable. It is a cacophony of noises and smells and colours all at once subsuming my faculties. Each day I leave my home with a generous allotment of forbearance to be expended by eleven. When you sing, I grate bones.
#00117F 