Whack

Everyone is dead.

I'm looking at you, pathetic humans.  You bloggers, you.

You're sad and broody.  All the time.  And yet your stuff is so remarkable.  That's not fair.

The parts of me that are dead go stiff in the dirt and I weep over the carved stones of their dwelling places until I am forced to avenge their death and structure my life around reviving them.

I beat the ghosts of myself with a club.

You dance with your ghosts in the darkness.

I am alone in the light.

I want the light.

I don't need ghosts.

I don't want to write ghosts.

But you all do.  And it is beautiful.  It's not fair.

Maybe it is because I do not know your darknesses.

But I want to write bright.

Is that too much to ask for, in an existence of divine shadow?

Please take pleasure in what happiness I can offer you in my jealous and ignorant state, you little lurking beasts.

For I will not be morbid.

Here is a microwave and some leftover pasta.

Here is my favorite pair of gloves.

It's getting cold outside, but you don't have to cry.

If you do, you can still be sad.  But make it a good sad, without the raw gore and sobbing embellishments.

Here is a tear to go with the cold.

It was not fun to extract from my eye.
Go ahead and sigh.
Just don't die.