I think of...

I think of the dying viruses on my steering wheel. I think of the tennis ball hairs that drift away from center court. I think of lava flowing through a burning house. I think of the dust that settles upon a grave during days of no wind. I think of the distance between a heavy coconut and a cranium about to crushed. I think of the minuscule shadow of a single grain of sand, despite the enormity of the beach. I think of deep mines and the timbers that kept good souls from being crushed. I think of the moment when one of those timbers gave way. I think of the eye contact made between poetic and disgusting orgasms. I think of the shape of a bean in a hungry child's stomach. I think of the fairest gender and how she exists within the folds of the deepest sunset. She's a line between paint. I think of the shape of her smile and the depths of her dreams. I think of the photos of ancestral galaxies, billions of years old, billions of years distant. I think of the always gentle upper lip of a woman. I think of the spot of dried salt on a tourists sandal. I think of the human race, that we are a symphony of souls scratching out an existence amongst a chorus of silent rocks and bending branches.

I think this whole experiment is silly.

If God has a sense of humor he hasn't stopped laughing for thousands of years.

Nothing so benign would create something so malignant as cancer. Or bipolar disorder. What sick fuck thinks of that?

Nothing so benign would allow young minds the atrocity of fearing death before the age of ten.

One of our great shames as a species is that we're born with the ability to experience shame.

We're also born with the ability to hold our breath underwater and with the ability to support our own weight with our newborn grip. Ask me to do that now and I won't hold a candle to a dangling newborn. Most people don't test this fact, not even those who live along steep cliffs and balconies.

I'm rambling because rambling is all I know to do. I'm not still enough for moss or mushrooms to take over. Not these thoughts. My mind is a tumbleweed, a bouncing bundle of wind-born bramble that drifts across the parched Earth in search of fertile patches. It's an oblong kite. It's a computer virus of poetry. It's a breath between hiccups. It's the orgy of stuffed animals and prizes in the box next to the exit of a big grocery store. It's the pattern of pigeon shit next to a box of spillt crackers.

We win by smiling.

I think of the peak of human experience.

I write this post for curious eyes. Here, this space, is where I deposit words. I make a withdrawal from my mind and I leave the remainder here for YOU to peruse. Thoughts, those that I can make sense of, are leftovers from the chaos that is my mind. Read them like you read the pattern of ash after a fireworks show. It's an honest picture, but understand that most of it drifted off with the wind.

I remember being a child and marveling at the minds of adults. So wise, I used to think. So smart. So responsible. So brave, always protecting us kids and looking out for our best interest. So unwilling to let us down, us kids. So comforting to be protected, to be looked after, to know that no matter what I'd be looked after and supported. No matter how horrible I felt, at least adulthood would be an easier go.

Easily pleased, those adults. Smile, nod, say something cute. Don't shit in the pool, sleep when told, get good grades, keep up appearances. The rest will take care of itself.

Inevitably I hit the age of ten.

The greatest skill a parent can teach a child is how to handle disappointment. Most parents are able to deliver a curriculum of controlled failure, moments that scream the following lesson to the absorbent ears of a child: Don't expect too much. This is it.

It always had a tone of apology, a well-deserved apology, an apology required by our instinctual ability to hope for better.

"I'm sorry I brought you here." That's why I choose to never utter that sentence. I choose to not reproduce.

Sad part about that is that the world could use more people like me. Smart, competent, analytical, restrained, sensitive, tall, filled with perseverance, optimistic despite the odds, high pain tolerance, a ready, hungry, wanting smile, a believer in the good parts of existence, the hugs and laughs and good swallows of good foods.

And flawed. Very flawed. When I shed a layer of skin the blotches don't go away, no matter how much I try.

We are electrons, us people, just little sparks of energy, flowing in one direction or another. We aren't water, we aren't wind, we aren't lambs, we aren't grocery-store stockers.

Well, maybe we're currents. We flow. Maybe we're water. We boil. Maybe we're wind. We're gentle. Maybe we're lambs. We fear. Maybe we're grocery-store stockers. We can't wait for the next thing.

Maybe we're big dumb dirty apes who dream between moments of instinct, like when a moth rests. We know the next flutter is just a few beats away but there we sit, persistent, pondering, grasping the immovable brick wall, awaiting a wind to arouse us or a rain to disturb us or we merely count down the dwindling moments of existence. Drawn forever are we towards the light, towards the brightness that washes away our inherent darkness.

Only in rare moments do we pause and appreciate how silly the whole thing is.

I've watched wisps of smoke dissipate into the sky past the light radius of a campfire and I've been jealous. You lucky molecules. Stop showing off your curves.

Heat bleeds.

Death is the shadow of a burned out lightbulb. It exists forever but it was there before we came here and glowed.