A Boon of Dandelions 2

Frustrated. Nervous. Confused. Diseased. Disordered.

Cloudy day and foggy mood although I do not think it a direct correlation: not then seasonal activity disorder.

Melancholy abounds into my now/here; she empassions me darkly.

Boundary situation of pain: Toes I sprained last week and the general tenseness in my shoulders circulate between each other with skin giving accents of sunburn & itch.

My eyes feel detached from my mind—better, distant to the point of breaking away—eye threads distending in all directions from the nexus “I,” disowning this world gathering going on.

Panic at any attempt to focus… one trial after another finding only the trite and trivial surface, glancing off the dulling edges, unable to connect to the lattice of not-I.

Time flowing as a fearful rush in hyperventilating gasps and then dammed up to a maddening drip in any venture at meditation.

Word from electric impulse through arm to finger to there ahead on electronic screen, object from project of subject—playfulness seems like bullying in the muddy currents of melancholy, the demon Sloth confusing the sincere seeker with unnecessary diversions.

Hunting after knowledge caught in the trap of introversional struggles, violence against the soul, no compromise among the parts—the organs & cells, the yesterdays & the tomorrows, the eating & shitting, the drinking, & pissing—no eventful exchange that focuses in the foreground.

This warehouse of possibilities unpreserved—tomorrows spoiled in failure; yesterdays decaying in stagnation; today’s response freeze dried to powder spilled on the nowhere ground and blowing away on extrovert winds.

Some of the dust gets blown backward in my eye and then… cleansing tears onto the surface, the visible flows back to the invisible.

Single empty stalk & all-else around it.



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