Stormy Day

So it's raining again. As you can tell from my last post, it's been raining on us here for several days. But I like it. I missed my call as a storm chaser. I also as it seems have missed my calling as something other than an office worker. But I digress. I would like to write some additional shtuff. I think someone may be reading it... :)

In the aridness of desert winds lives a creature seldom noticed and never heard. He lives his life with purpose. He never questions why he wakes each day for the soul purpose of completing the very same task that he did just yesterday. At the end of the day when his toiling his done, he is content to have accomplished as much as he could and happy to drift to sleep quickly as he is tired from a long days tasks. Procurement, companionship and security are never promised. The only constant is the drive to yet again complete his duties. But somehow, everything falls into place because nature cradles him. All that he requires to sustain life is provided by the miracle of the empty dunes. Procreation is instinctual and happens with ease. When the time comes to lie his tired weight into his nest for the final time, he has no regrets. There is no fear and no one to mourn his loss. You see no one ever told him that he needs those things. There has never been any of his kind to travel or question or need. There is only the desert and his duty. And that is a life we should all seek. Content, honest, tireless and simple. Thanks for reading.

More ramblings

1. A distraction for the mind or an event to dance the sun around the dial. A place to go or a call to make. A picture to imagine or a poem to write on the pages of pretty paper and lock inside the heart that created it. A time of loathing and moment of clarity. Everything at once, but nothing to motivate. A mangled nest of possibilities lacking direction and composure. Full of promise and short on nerve. The fog of chemical fed by the pleasure of silencing the internal chatter. The curse of femininity and the weight of modern expectations.

One questions stands at the cusp and begs an answer.

Who will help any one of find a path when nary a soul can find themselves?

2. Questions to transport you. - Have you ever gazed into the black of an approaching storm? Could you smell the moisture from a thousand mountain sunrises? Did your hair stand on end as the breeze washed electricity through your entire body? Have you stood in the open and dared the stampeding giant to come for you? Can you close your eyes and imagine the heaviness of the air? Can you feel the power of the thunder beneath your feet? Have you experienced the sensation of the leading downdraft as it washes the land with a million tiny particles of moisture from the farthest reaches to the soil beneath you? Have you ever posed yourself in the path of it in order to prove that you are mighty? Do you imagine that you are alone? Can you see the curtain of rain aproaching? Do you remain solid in your stance daring the beast to show itself? Can you feel the updrafts as they urge you now closer to the blackness? Does the pressure now matte the once up-right strands on your arms and neck down with humid force? Do you remain yet stagnant in pose as if in silent protest to the closening madness? Can you now smell the presence of debris from those who stood in protest before you? Are you able to now see the widening funnel as it licks the landscape in paralizing form? Are you still there? RUN BITCH WHAT THE FUCK!!!

Ramblings

At some point along the way, a small child with their heart filled with glee slowly becomes something much different. It creeps in like a misty fog and settles across the heart and into the eyes and seeps out through the infliction in their speech. Before any time at all has passed, the inocence is forgotten. A blur of mindless expectations race across the childs soul. Constant bombardment from every angle tells them they have to be the best, walk a straight line, rid themselves of their own style and conform to the ideality of society else face the coldness of rejection. They must strip themselves of their own uniquness and blend their hopes into an unrecognizable symbiance of what may have been. They wake to the sudden realization that although they are quite young at heart, the drone of time has robbed them of the chance to live spontaneously. How lucky are those that musn't cope with a life of duty, responsibility and obligation. How lucky are those that truly never know the pressure of conforming. How lucky are those that enjoy it. How miserable for the unique child wanting nothing more than a place to shine. Time is a wicked curse upon which many a dream have perished. Hope is a dangerous tool upon which the soul dies. And conformity is the dagger that steals it all.