What The Fuck Ever

I go through a weird run of emotions or thoughts when I'm away from home. This odd isolation feeling where I panic every so slightly that I am not at home - so far away from my core - and that I'm too naked out here.

Then I might relax and be totally cool with it all

And then I'll be sad that I'm alone and reflect at how often I really am alone even when I am home.

I think it just shows how much time I have on my hands? And that perhaps I have unlearned how to be not doing and having nothing to do. It's hard to have nothing to do. Truly, kids were such a blessing, there was never such an opportunity to over-reflect when you had kids, they always pulled you from that incessant and luscious lament by falling down and crying, wailing for food, loving you.

Now, I just have all this time and it has a powerful echo.

I'd like to get rid of this pattern, I'd like to clean it up and away. I'd like to be void of concern over things that don't concern me - you know?

I set a reminder in my phone:

Help me filter out patterns that do not contribute to the health of my mind and the happiness of my spirit and soul. 

This is a request to any or all the energies in the universe that point to good. That's my prayer.


I would like to swim out of this like a smooth finish to a dive.

But I don't think I can help that process if I'm resisting and fighting these thoughts and feelings as if they simply don't exist.

I think perhaps I have to allow them to come rushing in, like kids after playing outside. Small kids that were arguing over how to set up their tree fort and now their telling you all about the small injustices they found in one another - he said, she said - and perhaps I can at least just listen without being sucked into the vortex of it, listen as a mediator perhaps. Or, just a witness to it.

Either way, I'll just let them mill, swarm, cavort around me, listen to them, have some empathy but not to a fault. At the very least, I'll let them in instead of locking them out, making monsters of them banging on my doors to come in; little tyrants yammering for attention and threatening to beat me to a pulp.

the tyrants