Stream of Consciousness

Ever have one of “Those” days? Well I have. Today as a matter of fact. Trying to get my head in the right direction I thought, why not? who doesn’t like to see what goes through people’s heads? Here goes:

It’s a day of few words. Me in my comfy chair that doubles as my office. I have my giant mug of diet Mt. Dew within arm’s reach. My faithful dogs lying at my feet. All the good juju that usually keeps me focused. Yet I find myself pensive. More so than other days. I cannot even say for sure why. A stream of consciousness seems to be my best outlet for the written word today. My dog is in the corner chewing his back toenails. I hate that noise. My other dog is snoring. I think that’s adorable. It’s quiet today. The only real noise is coming from the large swamp cooler, and the trickle of water from the fish tank six feet to my right. I need to cut my own nails. I hate the way it feels when they strike the keyboard. Maybe my dog will eat them.

A fly box with a ridged foam bottom sits on my desk. I tied those flies in an attempt to show off. No one saw them. Instead they just sit there without purpose. They look good. Maybe I will fish them one day. Maybe. A lot of maybe’s fill my home. Maybe one day I will pot that plant that I started the roots on last year. But it sits across more me, roots swirling round the bottom of a vase with no flowers. To the outside world, I am a portrait. A lone figure, lap top in hand, back lit by the summer rays filtered through swirling dust bunnies.

I was violent earlier. I killed without thought. I killed with no remorse. Wild plants. Weeds really. Trying to survive the heat of the desert. I wiped them out. I spread the toxins. Genocide. They started it. I was invaded. I had no choice. There are porcelain dolls on top of the curio cabinet. Gargoyles guarding a cathedral. They frighten me. They watch me. I try to catch them in the act. They are fast. Unseen, not quite forgotten, a china set carried on the lap of a mother across the ocean. Its final resting place, the dungeon of my cupboards.

A hope chest without hope. Maybe at one time. There is that word again. Not anymore. Too old for hope. Knick knacks. Clutter. Reminders of time. An unopened package longing for a purpose. Debris from the window. It leaks. I fix it. It still leaks.  I really wish he would stop biting his nails.

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