People almost die often. They almost die while looking for love. They look for love everywhere. Harp on those that won’t give it to them. The pivotal people. The mom and dad threads. The first boyfriend. The job. The teacher. The government. Booze and drugs. (Those last two never love you back, trust me.)

My capacity to love has grown. As has my capacity to protect myself. To not eat jam every time I want it. I’m still angry. Still so angry and depleted. The world does that to me. I wish it didn’t but to think otherwise would be dementia. The world wants to kill you, so what do you do with that? The world wants to kill you for profit. And this is no lie. The world wants to destroy itself for boats and breasts and all you can do is just sit in it and age. Break teeth. Ring bells. Wait for love to come and sweep you off your feet. (The usual.)

All these years I’ve been splitting apart. All that’s left now is a soft sad center. Which I’ve been told makes for a boring character. Makes for bad sales. People don’t want to read about soft people or the gentle heroics of living a banal life full of anxiety and hamster wheels. Nobody wants to think that WE are the heroes. WE the boring, the depressed, the addicted, the poor, the jaded. WE are the pedestal and the person standing on it. WE are all that’s left. There’s nothing coming to save us. Just us. A tangled ball of WE all strung together while feeling miles apart. Fucking it all up. No grandness. Only the love mustered in our hearts projected onto others. The joy we find in mirrors deep in soggy rain filled trenches. The few strings we are able to pluck with blistered fingers. The small amount of God energy we channel through our mesh bodies into our hands and tools of communication. (Especially sound.)

That’s it folks. Yes, but isn’t it lovely? Isn’t it? It is. When it comes into a sharp and temporary focus. When you chase it only to realize it’s chasing you, and for just one sliver of grand inexplicable time… two chasers collide. (The serpent eats its tail.)