You’ll find me in places where others pass through. Going anywhere? I’ll be sitting still in the middle of the highway. Cross legged. Dodging traffic. While one part of me knows this is the best thing, another part of me feels angry bitter resentful. That part hates stillness more than going backward. That part of me still sees stillness as going backward. Because anything that is motionless is backward. I’m a fucking bird. When the hell do birds stay still? Oh ya, when they ride the waves.
So, in truth, I’m not sitting still. I’m gliding. And it feels weird to hitch a ride. But why do I feel this is what’s happening? Because I feel separate from the flow. That’s a constricted pov. I am as much a part of the flow as anything else. I am as much Camus as Whitman and Cummings and Plato and Einstein and Sagan and water and wind and soil and sun.
So I sit. It’s more difficult when I’ve been going like mad (auto word which makes me think of Lady Macbeth, to whom I’ve been recently compared. Unfortunately. I don’t think I should think too much about it. Just because that character was washing out blood and her OCD represented guilt from doing something wrong. That was not the intention of that comparison. It’s only my own shit that kicks in – the knowledge of the play. Not
Brb. Getting murdered by flies.