The ironic irony in the ironic days of irony, stumble and fall ironically all over an ironic landscape. There seems to be so much to say, but the words are uninvoked. Outlets, there are none. What is this void? The directionless anticipation while crouched at the starting line of a directionless race. No one knows where the finish line is. No one knows exactly where the course is located.
I look for the purpose and the meaning. Somewhere up ahead, I keep thinking there is a drawstring to cause the bubble of chaos to give way to labor, to productivity, to focus. I speak the words and then yield to our friend who never sleeps. She alters the words faster than the speed of sound so that they taste like vanilla. Is that better? Is it a loss?
Deep down inside, I know there is an actual opening just steps away. I dream of delivering a solution, a plan, a result, something that does not lie in wait for something I cannot identify, with shock and awe. At this point, my contingent sits at the table waiting with anticipation.
In my life, I have known true nebulae. Substantively, this is nothing if compared. This is more about keys. Doors that are opening, confirmation, and solidity.
I guess I got stuck as I sat around the campfire and told the story of my travels to the lit and shadowed faces all around me. In doing so, I placed myself in a state of flux between the 2nd and 4th dimensions.
What is it that is causing such a void? Nothing moves like November, December, January, February, and March. Then I realize it is raining. I noticed today that over the last year, 24 weekends have been rainy or snowy. Just 2 more and that will make half a year of it. It really is a cruel joke. I am certainly not laughing.
Even more cruel, while we saturate, flood, and wash away, others are drying up, roots shrivel, and hopelessly blow away. The heavy rainfall following a particularly harsh winter is simply not palatable. Somewhere, there has to be a clearing. I cannot see past it. I cannot see anything.
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