I’m a sad, despondent, poststructuralist subjected to history.
It’s true, isn’t it? None of us are special and others are not clamoring to know us. We are all alone. Not even God can point a finger and laugh, “You know, I’m not the slightest bit interested in you, no matter how hard you pray to me. I’m preoccupied in just believing in myself.”
And it’s not as though I want much. I just want to hear the sound of a zipper on a knee-high boot. Plus my name on a book. And another. And another, ad infinitum.
And then I want a garden of leeks and the keys to the city. Oh, and I wouldn’t mind a cult following as long as they offer room and board and tea at around ten.
I’m knackered. It’s hard work doing nothing and everything all at once. Plus I went on a long afternoon walk and that wore me out. But I’m getting as fit as a fiddle. Soon I will be able to play Vivaldi on my ham strings.
“A mind that is stretched by a new experience can never go back to its old dimensions.”