Just this once

It's hard not to feel persecuted by fate. It seems that every time her turn came up, something happens to snatch it away.


---
Proverbial chip on the shoulder. And she's not entirely a bad person. Or so she thinks. And why is she talking in the third person?

Pants on fire

Find yourself caught in the morning unfolding,
a witness to the south's leaden panorama
-- derricks, clouds, traffic -- slowly sweeping into view.
Find yourself sharing a smoke with a single disappointing friend
at a time caught in what a tangled web we weave.
Find yourself extending gifts in the form of the benefit of the doubt,
convinced of the innate goodness of people
and all the paltry things we use to paint over
the often inexcusable human desire to lie,
how you want this one to be true
despite all the warning bells,
sirens singing the same song.

Find yourself finding out for certain
how There's nothing going on is really, truly, undeniably something.

Find yourself swearing to keep a safe distance
when you can barely prevent invisible strings
tugging you this way and that, here and there.
Find yourself starting to lose faith,
wanting, no, praying, that shit won't hit the fan if it hasn't already,
knowing how everything has a price and has a way of unraveling, revealing.

Find yourself finally settling for refusals,
vehement as though everything were set in stone,
plugging your ears with music that says
Don't tell me I told you so and Good luck, good luck, good luck.



---
Interesting conversation.

Fuel to the fire

Iced Caramel Latte for Tata!

Thank you.

The dearly consumed designer coffee procured at a price much more extravagant for her absence of income borders between categories of folly versus fancy versus But I need something to make me feel better and What won't you give to feel better over the lack of writing? As if saying such a thing would bring the mojo back, would make her actually want to sit down and write.

Perhaps she shouldn't be so worried about the writing and seemingly lack of desire to create, i.e., unfinished painting in the dining area arranged so that she could pick up where she left of. Perhaps because it means she is much happier elsewhere yet finds herself pining for sadness to fuel her art.

And asks the question ---

What to do should you find the universe conspiring to grant your fucked-up wish?

---

Semi-shitty past couple of months in the writing world (mine, that is.)