little things

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Treading water

Grasping air

Fragmented chiaroscuro

Gasping for elusive equilibrium

Shaken world

Grieving body

Snarling at evil

Finger nails scratching

Trying to find traction

Up along slimy smooth

Stainless steel walls

Long dark gilded well

Finding little things

Signs of clemency

Wisps of good

Slivers of placidity

Bits and bobs of hope

Inside the mundane

To lift me


A wet morning, more neuropathic raindrops, the sog is seeping from the soles of my feet, upwards through throbbing aching ankles, spreading to the rest of the lower body.

Fragmented thoughts, tormented cells.

Invigorating intellectual discussion can be tiring, but the exhaustion is brief and recovery is not fraught. However, I am worn down inside the depths of my soul, by the social chatter of tumid ideologies, saccharine voices expounding the peaceful takeover of the world, enforcing the rule of LaLaLand. Violence is evil, force is terrifying, but the insidious poison of stubborn, resolute and gently aggressive proselytising is no less dark. And it sucks the life soul, the energy, of Selfness out of me. I feel a tangled ball of indigestible ethereal renegade lunatic threads sitting like a handcrafted false Buddha figure in the middle of my Beingness, grinning mockingly at the nausea it induces, saying, “Peace, sister, I am but smiling.”

My head is pounding, my eyes fading, and the nausea is wearying.

Nevertheless, I must not give up finding purity of benevolence inside the little things. No, not that LaLa-talk, but rather just simple Aspie focusing on the details, small pocket oases of peace.


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