devoid

I want to live a life devoid of a center. I think I'm succeeding. I've turned away, I've avoided, I've disappeared successfully. I am not sure some people even believe I exist outside of the screen. And for that I am delighted. Let me mold into whatever shape you've created. You've created me. I will only cease to exist when you decide it's time.

Every night I look forward to my plan to make cookies. I make them because it's a habit. I make habits. I never ever break them because what's the point in destroying what you've worked so long to create? Oh, I remember. Detachment. Enlightenment. Equanimity. These are all words I've seen printed on the backs of books. Nice words. Words that calm and entice and somehow force you to fork over the eighteen ninety-five. Thanks for the tips. Now let me make some more tips so I can reclaim my eighteen ninety-five.

I haven't always been such a cynical postmodernist. Once upon a time I searched for fairies under four leaf clovers. The only problem was I never found any. And as it turns out, I'm allergic to clover. If I begin the hunt, I break out into hives. I do not hunt for fairies anymore. I roam the ground looking around for broken bottles left by souls who consoled themselves with the liquid of life. If it's death we want, we first have to taste what the breath has to offer. The beating, the breath, the broken glass reflecting a sun that just won't leave us alone.