Stopit

When you think … — stop thinking
When you do … — stop doing
When you stop … — stop
When … — don’t
When not … — stop
When stopped … — think

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egging around

Life is about sitting on an egg, — partially.

When you’re sitting on top of an egg,
– and be honest, I think we are all trying to hatch something, –
and nothing happens for too long,
there is something wrong with the egg you’re sitting on.

Nothing is wrong with you, — of course not.
You did your time and probably more than was necessary.

No bird sits on an egg longer than they intrinsically know they have to, and neither should we.

If you want to bring something about:
manifest something,
change your circumstance, change your beingness.
If nothing happens,
get off and find another egg.

If you water a seed or seedling and it doesn’t grow,
you don’t continue indefinitely, do you?
Cui bono?
There must be a benefit; else, what are you doing it for?

Maybe herein lies the problem:
We are the egg and the hen.
Between being both we get side-tracked.
We hen around when we should also egg around.
And both hen and egg have a best before date too.
Or, perhaps our egg got swapped while we were inattentive or in cloud-cuckoo-land. We might be sitting on a dinosaur egg that takes epochs to hatch,
and we only have a human lifetime.
Another more sinister reason could be that there is no egg for us. A hiccup in nature, an oversight, or perhaps a deliberate message of:
“You are wasting your time here, you should be somewhere else, sorry (hu)man, internal error, – reboot.”

I don’t think sitting on an egg is that much fun,
especially when the dream of what that egg was supposed to become has lost its verve.

In the process of incubation and brooding, you have probably also attracted a severe bout of eggshaustion.
Rest is advised but time is limited because it is now already ‘time minus one egg’.

Time and eggs clearly have some agreement.
Maybe ten time units are one egg unit, or who knows?
And, you are entering into major guesswork as to how many time and egg units are available to you.

At this stage of disillusionment with reality and eggs, you might want to run away to an island and just hangout and relax.

When that escape starts feeling like another egg, is it now the right egg? There’s nobody really around that could answer that question. Eggvisors are few and far between, if not entirely mythical. And, other islanders egging it out don’t strike you as the right reference model.

It is not inconceivable that at this moment you might decide,
“WTF, I’ll just grab an egg that looks nice and sit on it and see.”

The point is that when that first egg doesn’t hatch
and we finally decide to move on to another egg,
unless some inbuilt direction finder kicks in
and sets our compass pointing north again in our life,
we could become abandoned eggs or hens without a head.

Now, the second (nth) time around,
we have to apply extra amped-up effort and employ every ounce of skill and wisdom to bring our life together and make sense of it,
— and not accept a watered-down make-believe or a shortlived fake brochure version, —
so we can find that satisfaction which is inherent when our right egg hatches.

Day of Dismay

A day…

like watered down milk…

– indifferently choreographed between white and grey

– tasting like soup with too much thickener and too little salt scooped from a burned pot

– conducted by a metronome seesaw clock stuck on one hour for half the day,

and then suddenly nothing happens, again, and it’s evening

 

A day…

of night aeons and darkness’s conquests and shadowy ghosts infesting my mind

– preserving its light in a heart-locket necklace in memoriam

– where Nothing sticks like clueless glitter lost on my forehead

– when angels were sought and found only in thought but never caught

– of skulls and crossbones destabilising sanity with orchestral irrationality

 

A day…

of X-rays beaming through my skeleton ignoring my transient flesh in their own celebration of reflection…

– where demons dismember my heart and grill the tendrils of my feelings

– of ego-tripping maniacs grinding me to dust with their mortar and pestle rhetoric

– when my ashes become the spice of the devil’s lust,

–  when ‘burn his soul’ is chanted by the karmic choir at the tortured gates of reincarnation,

and the cosmic eraser is bigger than any of my dreams

 

A day where…

Angst is the fire and defiance the air…

– blood is the drug knocked back with a double shot of death

– the soil that I stand on cries louder than hell pronged on a pitchfork

– I am misplaced like a bee on the sea

– I am like a butterfly squashed in the cooler grill of an abandoned racing car

 

A day…

that none of us asked to be part of…

because it perforates and slices with its shrapnel,

it blinds and dumbs the mind with chaos,

it breaks every ethic and moral and belief,

fatally demanding life and remuneration through recurring vengeance,

this day of the feasting vultures of dismay