Life as a cabbage

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

My laments would be colossal earthquakes, my weeping the screaming of bombers overhead. Never do I utter a sound, and curled in my bed with the mourning in my belly I do not move. The volcano shuddering my township never erupts, never spills magma over my breasts and valleys. I am forgotten, forgotten, and with the pinkness of my childhood dies any belief that greatness lies within me.

I am still. My chest expands and contracts. Blood flows. My eyes glaze, then dry, and glaze again. Tears do not spill over.

I proceed. I awake, I clothe and feed myself and my children, I send them off to Grandma, I go to work. I smile, I laugh. I scrutinize my dry eyelids in the bathroom mirror. I witness their isolation from my teeth.

The weekend comes. I drink, I smoke, I smile, I flirt, I fuck. I grab asses. I am fascinating, I have a new hobby. Everybody wants to be my friend. It's an experiment, to see if I'm interesting.

Every night, I stay up too late, the smoke of desolation parching my cornea. Every morning, I wake up too early, the salt of grief alkaline on my tongue. My morning meal is a parcel of meaningful lyric, my morning tea the color of light seen from behind flesh. I am in confusion, and all direction eludes me. I am thin from hunger, worn from sleeplessness. My north star was only a meteor.

My friends are kind. They nourish me with their company, but it is not calories enough to keep me from starving.

I establish a new philosophy, I have become Plato. From the seed of my bereft lament comes the school of unliteral truth, in honor of the one who wishes to be known but pretends to remain unknown, the secret genius responsible for gravity. It is sometimes gibberingly profound, sometimes hollow. It provides little comfort. It is a cool infested pool of water.

I, used to solitude, have become lonely in my house full of children. I have lost my ability to cry. The sorrow in my middle has lost its outlet and stagnates behind my optic nerves. I have lost even my Poet, ah Poet, ah Poet.

From beyond the open field of life, from behind the atmosphere of Venus.

[hooplala]

Wow.  Dismal, sad, and powerful as fuck.

I hope this was you looking into the mind of a cabbage, Nig, and not written from experience.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Thanks Hoop. I have occasional bouts of despair, and that was one of them.

I was thinking about maybe posting my book, a chapter at a time. It's unfinished and I'm never going to try to publish it; it's kind of depressing and unpleasant.

[hooplala]

A lot of people like depressing.  Take Leonard Cohen as an example.

Please post!  And get it published, FFS.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Leonard Cohen rules!

OK, I will post it.