Oh man, do I want to tell so many in my life I can’t afford to tell that they have grown too comfortable with being negligent pie holes by using every pithiness in the book to not have to listen to anyone, beginning with themselves, the wise old man archetype inside me is starting to throw a temper tantrum over feeling he’s being blocked from teaching anybody anything he knows from the ashen bottom of introspection to the slippery hand-hold of sensation.

In fact, just a few minutes ago he asked himself if he’s being just as black and white. But what can I say, I’ve learned I’m most like what the world is when I’m the one who’s paradoxically making it up, stitching on appendages of personal experience with black sutures of words that not only keep the self from bleeding out into lifeless irrelevance, but reveal more of the interconnectedness that self-repair process resembles.

Hell, maybe everyone is doing that each in their own way, whether they can be kind and sincere about it, or can’t, whether they will sit on the bed and reassuringly rub your back, or sit on your throat and rub it in.

Maybe there’s really no way to fix anything and the best I can do is make a space in the moody room of my life for negative experience to sit and be and laugh as it watches its breath drag itself across a beam of sunlight, maybe really all I can do is make this space for it to be interrogated.