defconnexion

It is said that the chakras are best aligned towards creation in these morning hours and I can feel the wheels turning now, as I do most every day around this time; this is so much wasted motion. The stories that unwind between my synaptic lights are pages in the wind and my hand is rarely steady enough to pluck them from the sky and bleed them into the earth before they are blown out to sea. It's easier to throw the words into the static fire that this electronic world belongs to, this happy mass consciousness we call so many things, this internet, but sometimes, you know, I miss water and wood. I'm cursing myself for compromise. That's the bottom line, as they say. I wish to walk away from work and right my tales. All wrongs intentional. But I fear I would never finish, if indeed there is an ending. And if I finished, would anybody read this folklore of my autoculture? Sometimes I think that words are just poison that I'm trying to purge. I think today's one of those days. I feel needy. I'm making a request. I urge you to write your own stories. Without words.