Confused-Shoes

why can’t the things we mean be the only ones that actually get expressed and understood, and nothing more?

Deficiencies and excesses are fatal.  And so is expectation. And so does trust matter, and the lack of it as well. There is the past and the agonies of its wake, and there is the future, taking shape, beckoning, threatening. Oh, but then again the past and the future operate on the same plane: they are first-class torturers.

There is confusion and there is insecurity. There is unsolicited advice, with a sprinkle of concern. But sometimes everything is over even before the best intentions get filtered from those made up of sheer self-assurance and spite.

There is longing and there is ill-treatment. Emotional battery, it appears to me. The signs are unmistakeable, like the end of days. Ironically, the peak of all stress happens on the day most people honor their dead.

Before me is a vast array of options. But I haven’t got even a single iota of intelligence to choose what suits me best. Leave it all too chance and yes, I have a perfect expectation of being happy or ending up in misery. Either way that should be human nature and then nothing should come as a surprise.

I don’t know, I don’t know. Lots of times the blame’s on me. Of course now is absolutely no different. If it rains tomorrow, as someone assured me it would, or if the sun shines, it will not matter, really. Either I am drowned or burned. Death, it’s all the same. You close your eyes. I close my eyes.