I’m Happy. Beware.

That’s right.

Like flowing water, specs of silt as buildings and bikes and people float by me, colorful and drab, tumbling together, alone, moving.  It’s like fireworks without the noise or the big bursts of light, one minute it’s there the next it’s not.

I walk through the world as if it is there for me.  I wonder what all these buildings are and all these cars and people moving around so quickly or just standing around.  I wonder why they are here; standing, sitting, watching, smoking, lurking, behaving.  All this movement around me but no sound except for construction equipment and giant diggers and the belching of huge trucks and air brakes.  But really it’s quiet until I plug in and then the music comes from the inside out, bursting from the center of my mind, the headphone.

I’m pretty sure that what I think is just a strategy so often I try not to think but then I get confused and if people weren’t so bothered by that, I’d enjoy it more.

So much movement.  Back forth back forth back forth across in out over up down.  I like to climb on the world like it’s a rock and sometimes I wish I could just keep climbing, scaling the walls of office buildings and walking on the roofs of cars.  For now, it’s enough to be confused.

So much movement.

I don’t think it would be bad, I don’t think it’s bad if it was dancing but I think the difference is when you’re dancing you’re happy.

It’s not easy to walk in the world the way I want to walk.  That’s why I don’t do it.

So much movement.

My heart oh my heart, it will never be broken so if you ever here me tell you so you can scream at me that I am a liar.  Liar.  But what, you say, what about your son!  HA!  Your heart never broken…you fucking liar.  If your son died your heart would be broken, you would be broken, you would be destroyed, no longer human, no longer alive, no longer able to breath, no longer living, no longer fighting death, decimated, crushed beyond recognition, beyond memory, finished but never having begun.  If your son died you would kill the world, rip valleys from rivers, tear mountains apart with bloody hands that would turn to stumps, crush the sun with your mouth, roast your insides, decimate the universe and all space and air.  If your son died…

oh my…oh my…

It’s just that I’m so selfish.  And really not more than just a child myself, possessive of my toys and things, feeling that they are me and so I must have them my way, or, or…or what I am I?  My son is like that too…but somehow, I am teaching him not to be.  I’m teaching him things that I don’t fully know myself.  FULLY!  HA!, more like “even”.

It’s like he’s made my life OK!  Like he’s become my reason.  Savior!  I couldn’t find my way before so why do I think I can find my way now?  Because I have something to love?  Like a doll or a stereo system or a really tricked out laptop.  Oh so insidious this human life, this human tendency towards distraction, this human tendency to make it ok especially, Especially when it’s not.  I don’t so much pound the drum as listen to the melody and, if I like it, make it mine.

Well fuck.

So much movement.

Everyone has given up.  No?  No you say?  I would swear at your face now, if I wasn’t so polite and didn’t care if you kept reading…maybe some day.  Everyone has given up and built houses and backpacks and couches and arguments.  Arguments and couches are the same thing.  And so is creativity, unless it out fucking there, out out out out out out out there on a fucking billboard otherwise, sit on it.  Everyone has given up and is now looking up, always, for the meteor, trying so hard not to die, trying so hard not to die.  How hard do you try not to die?  It’s funny when you compare it to other things you do.

We can’t even be foolish anymore because we don’t know who we are.  So we just act foolish.

So much movement.

If I only spent as much time feeding a child who was certain to die as I do blogging.  I’ve probably killed a few hundred kids myself.  I’ve got better things to do.

Tough mutha-fucka’s

Men and their toys are really boys.  Give me a mountain and let me explore for weeks (can someone, um, pay my bills though, pls?).  Tough Mutha-Fucka’s.

The only thing worse than having it backwards is knowing that you have it backwards and not changing directions.

Silly Bitches.

So many silly bitches.

There are only a very few reason why males and females should collaborate.  Money and Love.  The rest is just movement.  Silly Bitches and Tough Mutha-Fucka’s.

After all in the lives that we all lead, what really is there to be clear about, most of us don’t deserve to be clear, that’s why we try so hard to prove our point.  It very important that we prove our point.

But, I guess, after all this…at least I’m not one of the people who thinks things are going pretty well.  At least I’m not one of them.

Tags: , , ,

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

My Serene Words

Seeking Solace in the Horizon & Beyond


Wellness • Poetry • Life

The Wild Heart of Life

Creative Nonfiction & Poetry

Wild Like the Flowers

Rhymes and Reasons

Inner Peace

True wealth is the wealth of the soul

Subdued Flamboyance

Poetry by Dr. Abhinav Majumder

Life...Take 2!

I hope that someone sees this page and decides not to give up...




Climbing, Outdoors, Life!

Be Inspired..!!

Listen to your inner self..it has all the answers..


Because we’re all recovering from something.

Elan Mudrow


Bitter Gertrude

Blogging about Culture, Equity, and the Arts since 2013


Critical Dharma for Thinking Minds /Milk Tea Alliance

Random Stories & Beyond

by Yashasvi Shailly

Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha

Musings and books from a grunty overthinker

Josep Goded

Seeking Truth

Happily Lover

Happily Ever After


:to put to death (as by hanging) by mob action without legal approval or permission

%d bloggers like this: