Once by ice and now by fire, erasing her mistakes, Mother Earth must wonder how many times it takes to finally get the world planned right, for once the lot is cast, how can she watch sufficiently a planet that’s so vast?
Her hope is that but rarely she must resort to extinction to control a species risen to such great distinction that it uses up more resources than it can provide. How many times must she restore a planet that has died?
She casts a might yawn and then breathes fire once again— cancelling out excesses that they can’t see as sin. Caught in a clinch as they resist all means of education, perhaps the only answer is mankind’s eradication.
My dreams always end before some big climax—the revelation of what is behind the wall or who is behind the spread cape, ready to turn around and solve the mystery. Dreams are a wonderland we dive into unaware—a little surprise some part of us produces every night. A vast world composed of images real and false. Bits from our past or present scrambled up with fantastic elements perhaps remembered from our youth. Dreams where we can fly. Sinister alleys and unknown streets we wander through, at first with a false assurance that they will lead to somewhere. It is with regrets or a heartfelt “hurray!” that we awaken from these dreams—either saved or disappointed by the awakening—our lives somehow sorted out by the weird realignment of facts and fantasy that they accomplish, like shuffled cards, rearranging our past by mixing it in with the future or with fantasy. Dreams are a surreal world we enter every night, no less real than the world we live in every day. Just different, made up of different parts of ourselves. A second chance, perhaps. Or a sorting out of problems, worries, regrets.
That first triumphant journey of a toddler on a trike predicts his future conquering of a two-wheel bike. Despite his mom’s temptation to grab his overalls to whisk him off from crisis and save him from his falls, nothing can be gained from this. He needs to face his spills. Part of education is dealing with the ills that he’ll be called upon to deal with in his future life. We cannot live our children’s lives or guarantee no strife.
What he is up to, nobody knows.
He bought a new sports car and wears flashy clothes,
but all his good judgment seems to have died. He’s capricious and willful and daffy and snide.
The smile on his face seems lacking inside. If he’s passing by and you ask for a ride, he’ll go off on a tangent and then leave you stranded with no idea of where you have landed.
I thought midlife crisis was only in books, but judging by clothes and behavior and looks, it’s something he’s caught, albeit quite late, for if humans were stamped with an expiry date,
I think you would find his nearly expired.
He should be feeble and mostly retired, but instead, he’s determined to have a new life minus perspicacity, minus his wife.
Not one can tell him what’s fun in one’s forties— the boozing, carousing and other wild sorties— Can be lethal at eighty, for it’s the truth that youthful behavior’s best done in one’s youth!
When daylight breaks, bring in the paper and over breakfast, plan a caper. Crazy plans are fun to bake up. Do your nails, put on some makeup. Call in sick. Forsake your labors and boggle all your friends and neighbors by doing something crazy wild. Reconnect your inner child.
A vital element in fun is do not stop until you’re done. Paint your house a vivid hue. Then why stop there. Why not paint you? Go for a boat ride, buy a bike. Buy hiking boots and take a hike.
Wear funny clothes. Get a tattoo. No end to things that you could do.
Turn your hems up, cut your hair. (No one can see what’s under there.) Take Santa Claus out on a date. Most months he’s bored. Don’t hesitate! When you are letting loose, please just only do the things you must. It’s vital that at least just once you dare to play the fool or dunce
and take the chance to try to binge and do what makes the whole world cringe. It’s fun sometimes to be unique in what we do or how we speak— to be that person standing out with anything that you can flout. Life’s too short to always do what the world expects of you!!!
South sea island cruises do not stir up my lust. I fear that all my passions have succumbed to mold and dust. All that iron will to love has come to naught but rust. To date, there is no counter urge that says, “My dear, you must!” It never was my temperament to plot and scheme and plan complicated maneuvers to try to catch a man, but still I found that now and then one drifted into view that caused me to examine my attitudes anew.
Perhaps my behavior included one or two of the tiniest maneuvers by which I hoped to woo. It may be that in passing, I allowed the slightest brush of my arm and his arm and blamed it on the crush of bodies in the elevator, even though the fact is that the elevator was not so tightly packed. Nonetheless, my hints were subtle, for I rarely pined for a lustful body over a brilliant mind.
So if you want to woo me, do it over books. For me a silver tongue will always win out over looks. Write with wit and logic, original and kind. Fan my imagination. Seduce my wild mind. My upper arms are flabby, but my mind is sharp and taut. To woo me, try to judge me not for all that I am not. The only one to win me would be one of my own kind. The only nuptials I seek are marriages of mind.