I am failing in the right direction. An aging singer good at manual labor. I can sit for ten minutes without thinking of anything. Meditation is a mandatory prescription I have learned to live with. Other things I haven’t been able to be complacent with. Everything is so clear and neat I could tie a knot into a little bowtie that would rise to the occasion to write my life off as an alibi. I talk to inanimate things and let them guide my destiny, just don’t tell anybody. I’m hiding something. I don’t have time to think of myself but I’m still anxious about something. Everyone else. People would be surprised by my little wise wit and lies that get them through the week in an office. Life is a beautiful detention looking out the window due to a thing called work. A good loving sweat after a day’s work makes it worth it to leave something on earth when it is time for me to go to heaven. I’ll visit hell on the weekends with the rest of my friends. I worry I will make poor decisions my whole life with them, but when I am alone, I can condone the rest of my behavior. Or at least, I think I can. I am still a basketcase but at least I have finally started something worth reading. An autobiography? I hope you don’t think I intend to have children with everything that is wrong with me. I don’t have time for such frivolities or the money. But I like babies. They make me smile and giggle when they wiggle their arms, legs, and toes and noses. I am still in the beginning of the discovery of my trauma. It is like soiled milk in my stomach and brain. Talk to Freud. He would be disappointed but impressed at the same time. I think the entirety of what he preached was a disappointment to even him. Why are we so quick to accept one mad man’s theory as the basis of the entirety of a field, subject, or the philosophy of the human brain. Perhaps someday my poetry will be in a museum. I’d just be happy if one person read it. It just depends on who. Nothing changes day by day, but then all of a sudden, life emerges from the crowd, and the next thing you know it is a splendid dinner party*. I am starting to get the feeling that my first novel is unreadable no matter how good I’ve heard it is. Something is off-color about it and makes people uncomfortable. At least it has one memorable moment. Hopefully, people will understand that sadness, and pain is often funny. It makes for a good awkward intimacy.
Sneeze*
Ben Bonkoske 