Apocalyptic Thought

 Imagine if people treated kindness like sex. Offered crudely, but frequent. Worried about, but offered in a big swing. Pursued with vigor, given often. Given causally, without whim. Though frowned upon, bought and sold. Imbued in everything, suggestive, overblown. We probably still wouldn’t appreciate it.

 People are having a hard time. In Gaza.  In Israel. In Ukraine. In Russia. In Myanmar. In Sudan. In West Africa. The vast complexities create gross efforts to simplify them .  Speak up, but don't be mad the consequences. Bully someone in opinion they don't have. Don't question your opinion. The rest of the story is overrated. Kids live everywhere. The family is the default creations of human existence. If there's a war,  families are stuck in them. Pictures are the final beacon that kids are dying. Children are affect the moment that first rocket explodes.  Know that before preaching for a war. Know that when its begged for. Know that when signing up. And don't forget about it when heading back home. 

Breaks should not be discouraged. The clear slate is a trick. Revisionist history. Mistakes are not seen. The bad ideas hidden. Shame  avoided. Guilt is never developed. The perfect post is published in the world for all to see. This won't be that.  I will revise what I can, publishing my thoughts here. This is for practice. This is for the site I eventually create. All a part of my growing skillset. Regardless, all of this starts today. No near future. No coming soon. I'm tired of delaying this work with all the excuses that come with it. There will be typos. There will be weird spam comments that I'll respond to. It's all a  process. I'm creating an audience.  Something to live for a  consistent period of time. This is my way out. This is the escape from my brain. This will be a pitstop to create musing thoughts. Something that has staying power.  I hope people dig it. I'm going to try a lot of things here. Most of it won't work. I hope you enjoy what does

I was told something earlier this year. I was told to "tone something down" in regards to a comment I had made. Context— a lot of incorrect make-up was applied and I how wronged it looked. It wasn't done intentionally, but the look was the same. It looked like black face.  I responded with "I will never tone it down." Moments like this tend to label "this is the mood of 2020" but it's not. It's the reaction of the different context I've read, knowledge I've sought and consumed, and my own opinions, crafted and refined because what I've acquired. Racism is a plague with no vaccine. It's a flu that you can quell with a mild solution, and accept that it kills people. It becomes a standard in living. Something you see, accept and move on.  Maybe it's progress, not a place to stop, but a milestone of where we've come. It's better, but it's not good enough. I don't even know what good enough looks or feels like.  I

A lot of  failures are completely my fault.  Why can't I comprehend that I am the reason for my shortcomings? Different self-help books, social media...all make sense of why this would drive a  motive to become active and get one's life in order, though I can't get over the initial hill of accepting the blame. I can't look at the responsibility. That hasn't been enough o answer the call-to-action.  I have the instinct of inaction, numbing myself with distractions long enough to forgot about it, or think on different subjects, easing into the justifications that don't involve me. Let the external sources be the drivers, and that way I can feel better. That, or go get some ice cream.  I've failed my writing. I disguised it with the need to text faster, or write neater, or getting the skills to get a real job. Hell, I've convinced myself to be bum it out because I'm tired from a job in retail.  I am hella tired; though that's not good enough.  I cou

Photo by  Timothy Eberly  on  Unsplash She’s surrounded. Her initial plan was not quite like this. It was taking on one, or two of them, but four swords point at her, waiting for the first move to be made. There’s always an opening, just she has to wait for the right moment for it to appear. She could always create one, giving in for just a moment, but that maybe the riskiest more she can make. “Last chance.” Could she risk it? She might be able to take them, even if the odds are against her. She would have to move quick. “I’ll think about it.” “Too late.” The first man stabs, slower than she imagined. She gets the break she was hoping for. The opening reveals itself, and she enters the man’s space at a speed he wasn’t ready for. He reacts too late, swinging in desperation. Red bursts from his neck, and his hands drops. His body follows, and she already wipes her dagger clean with the back of his tunic. The rest of the men watch, unsure of what they sa