Surfing the seams

Dreams and parallel worlds are textured by anxiety, ribbed with lil chunks dimunitive and eaten spelling hope of a kind...that there is an element of possibilty as there is an element of reality even if it slinks towards the sordid. Well, aren't iron rich spinach grown by gutters? Opposites quell. When you read blurbs that go ‘lessons on how to live everyday to its fullest’, which instead of pushing forth suck you into a vortex of contrasts, of incomplete purposes like half-built freshly-cemented yet abandoned or absconded from one-floor one rooms with iron rods like the polypods of a dead cockroach sticking right up through air in the middle of a patchy land, the kinds one passes on a train journey, the ones that lie on the outskirts, the ones planned by new money.

The anarchist sniffs the air; the air turns summery with hay shine. Warm and expanding air; wanting to lie on a beach a lil away from a coconut tree glazed over by silver-blue glinting sea, boadacious curves courtesy nuzzling sand, rhythmically breathing to the rolling froth. Every sense converging on one plot and from it arise options – a drive on ECR, a stroll through crocodile farm, mango pulp juicing down in veins on my forearm, and nothing and no one…all of them diaphanous meanderings. This is the point of no return cause when it is possible I give up. Scary…involves relinquishing the known, lack of aggression, and litmus tests whether it is escapism or in fact meant to be. Turning your back and walking on is the hardest thing… walking away on the other hand is an easier, flawed assurance of a braindead reality.

Well, Pooh said don’t underestimate the power of doing nothing. I say don't think nothing of the power of nothing. Anarchists are dysfunctional.