Out of town yet home, and my heart, body, brain, soul-drenched toast waffles of skin betray me in the subconscious convolutions of the dream space. Bittersweet delusions of that ridiculous outrage that leave me tingling and guilty and shamed and enthraled in that passion constantly subdued by the existence of that enforced life within that safe “mediocre” threshold. Sinful delights of overconsumption of sugar, fat and cheeeeeseeee-cake with strawberries smashed into the smear linger. Juicy and dangerous to the veins that are about to pop: an aortic aneurysm of the forcefully encapsulated.

I slept real good. For the first time in months.

I want to burn down, rise from the ashes, crash against the rocks, tear them down, dilute into the waves and turn into a cloud. Rebuild. Reborn. Sustainability of the soul. Recycle, reuse, remake yourself. Tear the cardboard boxes of the lies “That’s fine. Everything is ok. I agree. I would never… Yes. Well done.”

I am slowly approaching my 40s. I don’t mind much although the body is slowly reflecting its aged limitations. It is claimed that times move faster as you age, but I cannot imagine that is true. What happens is that space is just filled with less. The repetition of the sensations of experiences we had over and over. Nothing new. Nothing to awaken the beast on the inside, the whip cracking its repeated beating – a comfort of the sheer regularity of it all.

World, blow my mind.