Little Threads
Sometimes I get tired of what there is to eat and I wish I didn't have to do it so often.
Sometimes I eat a frozen waffle just because it's there.
Sometimes I look outside at the sky, plants, and cars, or inside at the chairs, walls, and floors with their solidity and their dust, and I feel so contained, even by the sky. I'm held in, held down, captured.
Sometimes I see death as funny and people doing business and moving lots of money as funny and waking up in the morning funny.
Sometimes I feel myself roped around the neck with an anvil, which is pretty funny, cartoon funny, but I can't see it then. I can't see funny.
Sometimes I silently curse strangers, like when a car doesn't pull over for an ambulance with its siren screaming and I think, I hope that ambulance is racing to save your mother.
I am trying to work on that, though. I am trying instead to think, I hope that ambulance is NOT racing to save your mother.
I am trying to have more compassion.
Sometimes I fantasize about the end of the world – the bomb, the meteor, the plague – and I think how it might feel to stare it in the face, to watch the curtain come down. I imagine sitting on my rickety patio furniture sipping a lemonade while chaos reigns in the streets thinking, What's all the fuss about? Things were obviously heading in this direction.
Sometimes I love everything so much, I love everyone. I'm like a bursting bud, a cosmic flower-radiance spilling out. I feel the world feeding off me, feeding off that positive energy, like I'm some universal battery that never runs out.
I want to be like that more, a blooming center, a love mandala, with all the bees buzzing and me there waiting with my pollen outstretched on little threads.