Beginning's Begin Again...

and endings need an end.

Good morning.

I hope the morning and mornings for you don't feel like most mornings do for me. Not good. And not a morning in the metaphysical or poetical sense. For me mornings are when my physical eyes are opened and my body breathes and my mind screams in the silence of a barely noticeable will.

Honestly.

But let's get to some practical matters.

Yes. It's been awhile since I posted anything. It is a kirkyard after all. Get it? Kirkyard. Look it up.

You can smile now.

But back to business.

You will notice that today the days of the #100Days writing challenge is not counted down in the post title and there is no #100Days hashtag, because I have not accomplished, by a long shot, being able to post something each day for 100 days. I wanted to. But my wanted to didn't match up with my can do.

But that is my life.

A life that hasn't and couldn't match up with what living with purpose, and vigor, and hope, and joy, and all those positive and affirming words should entail.

But at least I am consistent.

Regret is the pole that aligns me to my deep sadness. My deep morose. My deep pain. My deep darkness. The king who possesses the throne of depression.

A consistent call that demonizes my days.

Another thing you will notice. I'm losing the asterisks between lines and paragraphs of my thoughts and subjects.

(And a cheer arises.)

Secondly, I am going to be hold myself to being brutally honest. Even if it is hateful, it will be an honest hate. A hate not hidden or parsed. You may not like it. Hell. A lot of times I don't like it. A lot of times I hate the hate. But if love is all we need, we'd all be in a sweet coma. A diabetic tribe of catatonic cattle unable to have their own distinctive moo. And I will moo even if the rest of the world boos at me.

Thirdly. (Oh! A trinity!) I will be calling out Christians and their crutch of the clutched cult of Christianity. It is a topical way of life and belief that I am most familiar with, so I'll add my two cents worth of diatribe. So if you dwell in the land of milk and honey, you may want to avoid crossing the border to the land of bastardly bombast and brimstone.

You will notice that I will jump around a lot. From thought to thought. From topic to topic. It's a mind thing.

Don't mind me.

There will be piss-poor poems. And the occasional good one. Yes, written by me. And if you happened to be pleased, thank me monetarily. In that particular way, I'm easy to please.

So I hope you stay. If even for a day.

Let's carry on. Shall we?

The problem with wanting to be a writer is that you have to write something.

I am pleased that we as a species are giving our lives over to the machines. They are learning fast aren't they? Hopefully someday they will have the reasoning capacity to emote happiness. To emote compassion. To fulfill promises. To even emote for emotion's sake.

We, as flesh and blood entities and personalities, would rather not hear or communicate audibly with our flesh and blood brothers and sisters.

Talk about being ignored within a compassionless mass of cellular automatons.

We do. And we are.

Alexa?

Turn out the lights.

(Oh yes. A lot of what I write may have no rhyme or reason. In that case, it's written for me. See?)

One last thing. I will keep a referring feature. This...

More later. There's always more later.