From inside I heard, outside, a tragic owl calling out confusion of the changes in weather. There are now blue skies constantly and the winter is a huge denial, may as well never have happened, they say, in small shivering circles. "It's freezing." "It's too cold." It's this, it's that. Complaints of this manner are frivolous, make writing of such people become turgid and monotonous. But the owl, on the other hand, majestic with a head to turn 360 degrees. Can you break an owl's neck? They only fly at night. They only hunt at night. They are narcoleptic daysleepers.
Ceiling fan is on for the first time in months, spreading around winter dust, mostly icicles and a soft showering of snowflakes that coagulated atop the blades. Allergic to the false optimism and pollen. Remove old sex tarnished covers from comforter. The memories weren't comforting and we realize this and remove shades in order to see the world as it is. A huge exponentially diminishing garbage heap.
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I don't know who started this whole downward spiral, but our country is a raging alcoholic. All sorts of drunken debauchery to perpetuate a failed system. Nefarious deals in back alleys, black out and ripped off, to keep this fucking useless status quo rolling on to oblivion and to the ether. Why do we, as human beings, allow ourselves to be so subdivided and lost in a script we never prescribed to? We never signed our lives away to be abused like this. To have our spirits crushed by faulty ideals of wealth and affluence. It's all a crock of shit. Houses at the end of culdesacs do not sell because not enough people will drive by to see it. Not enough people will hate their lives due to you in your big house. Them in their big house too, though slightly shorter ceilings and the hallways are big enough for the kids to drive golfcarts through but your ceilings are tall enough for the entryway water fountain you are to have installed when company (family friends, the police, whoever) come trhough and drop their jaws on the granite floors, shimmering and shiny with the blood of a mexican maid who gets paid nicely to never talk to you or your family. A slave culture... Your house is big enough for the kids to drive cars through. Not just golf carts like the envious man's old decrepit dump of a house.
Why do we feel that we need all of these extraneous material objects? Your soul will not thank you for the entry way of your mansion on your deathbed. Your butler will not say a prayer. They will betray you. Every object you place your faith in. Everything in magazines that say you will be happier if you have them... eventually some of this faulty reasoning seeps into your pores. Your bones are hollowed out by these advertisements. They are your cartilage. The water in your brain. Your teeth, whitened to a blinding white, your hair gelled and slicked back or up or sideways based on latest celebrity trends, your clothes and cologne expensive and heart-ending.
I say burn it. Burn it all. Live with less and your heart grows.
Bukowski lived for months on a diet of a single candy bar a day. A PayDay at that.
Suffering leads to a greater understanding and appreciation of life.
Let yourself suffer.
