Again.
They say that life is a confirmation of hope, a surety of the triumph of will and a roundabout way to ensure your plentiness. They argue that to live is to slam the door in the faces of your numerous enemies, to taunt them with the oxygen richness of your blood spilling through your veins with each heartbeat, to live is a feat that many aspire to and so him that lives should be much grateful.
A rare serving of horseshit is what it is. These words do not cross my lips though, the walls have ears, angels fly in the awkward spaces of quiet and bad luck lives in the eyes of people. I mutter these words in my head, a freshly laid platter of horseshit is what life is about and anyone seeing different ought to be checked.
I know what you're expecting: an exhilarating argument as to the unfairness and heart rending imbalance that seems to be life's perch; a wailing satire pinpointing bad people shining like stars in an otherwise crowded galaxy of seemingly good, fair and upright people; some atheist philosophy about how God, if he exists, ought to suck balls; or maybe a dimwitted rambling about the patriarchy and the misunderstanding of the femininity and all that nonsense about the new woman and the pipe dream that is feminism.
Hah!
You will get none.
Perhaps I loved the nothingness, perhaps I liked the infiniteness of knowledge, perhaps I soared through the blackest of nights unafraid. Perhaps I was happy in the mud. Perhaps I preferred not to live.
Yet again, I was pulled from my space in the nothingness and thrust into the arms of a new one, young she was.
"My baby" she said, as she rubbed her non existent belly.
And so began my life (a rare serving of horseshit).
Let me be.
Let me float in the dark, watery space.
Let me.
The End.
24 came with a vengeance!
A happy one.
This is more of an empathetic rant than a self rant.
I wrote this but I still do not understand it. Perhaps you can.
Photo by Dan Cristian Pădureț on Pexels.
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