Droning

we found a quiet hobbit nook the other day
a cozy woodish book-decked space
with rich spanish lattes
and oil paintings abound

(and I think I feel strange because I ate something strange
but regardless
I think that a bit of stream of consciousness
will make things better)

the rain is pouring
pouring pouring
oh! the thunder sounds like angry popcorn
crackling in the skies
and they are splitting
in half, drowning in their grief

(did anybody really go anywhere?
i don’t know. nor do i think so.
is it mostly a matter of show
or objectivity?
and does it behoove me
to be so mentally tied to it all?
after talking to my best friend
it seemed to dissipate–finally–
mud hardened by disgust
eventually hosed down by understanding

nowadays i am
too tired
to care)

i’ve been thinking of a wordpress i started in 2015
the summer of 2015, to be exact
it was a small, honest space
and even though i would add tags, it was relatively private
it felt more candid
more open
more cringey

i think i just miss word-vomiting with that sort of
lost careless sadness
when it felt like roads would extend forever
in that lazy summertime way
when time would stretch like
putty and i’d wrap
myself in it, contemplating nabokov
or whatever-his-name–
the metamorphosis guy, that one–
and i thought life couldn’t be more
paradoxical

what a luxury it was
the droning contemplation

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