And I heard ’em say, I’m pessimistic on most days and maybe once every, if there is such a thing, as a “Blue Moon” then the slightest slice of optimism can be squeezed into my bottle. Mmaaan I’m so self-conscious. But on the pursuit of happiness any given hapless chap can haphazardly blur cognitive reality as a defense mechanism to preserve ones individuality. A Maelstrom of thoughts spinning on a swivel chair at a dizzying pace. On the back of a fire fuming dragon I begin to question my own intentions, desires. Russian roulette, monks still silently pray when set on fire.
Insecure yet loyal to a fault. A balking wallflower crumbling under impressively structured fictitious first impressions. Narcissistic construction workers tirelessly, constantly constructing falsifiable truths in a concrete jungle only a 3rd World survivor would inhabit. Jurassic World.
Mood-swinging is an understatement. Alone I awake on the wrong side of the bed, headless. All heart like Aladdin when he was neck-less. Clutching my nuts in ripped acid washes donning a Middle earth mithril flannel with the sleeves tucked. Berserk and all Guts belting a rally cry, war cry in a battle torn racially divided war zone called Home. No wonder home is where the hatred is.
Yet on the other side of the bed is a peculiar pessimist pissing on public and political opinions with a bladder full of caffeine and B vitamins. “The trust of the innocent is the liars most useful tool.” So I greet with silence yet follow the rules with defiance. We all have, equal opportunity, to get fucked by those bastards given “power” before they hit puberty. Knowledge grants me the vigor to fuel my vendetta against those justly vilified. Those who suck and swallow until all hope is nullified. Bypassed. Opportunist jerking thy cock and cradling the nut. Spewing through a sulfuric esophagus sporadically regurgitating wads of semen as they sputter muttered words of wisdom. Puddles. Muggy cock breathed nut huggers. Is that the so-called blueprint to success? Are they not being selfless?
What wisdom is gained? What wisdom medicates peer pressure and elevates esteem? How cruel is the Golden rule? When the lives we live are only golden platted. Malleable experiences and muscle memory mold our palpable mighty morphine dreams. A scale even a black swan would find trouble balancing. Yet channeling my innermost badass I’ll Bebop my way to the Swordfish and dance with all the other space lions.
Damn, what an emotional cartography this is, a release therapy. A maelstrom theater of the mind. Reels projecting on the screen a prisoner of conscience plotting a grizzly escape. Dreading this emotional cold war where every emoticon is its own secret agent texting manic expressions. In person, face to face, I express a steely eyed silence to mask the chaotic violence swarming through my thoughts. A bi polar wreck, remaining curious as to what feelings will erupt next.
(Written by my husband: Geary Davis. He is amazing.)