This is my writing with a fledgling readership. I changed the information and seemed to have gotten less readers for some reason, as though the former title of "Strange Wren" encouraged reading.
The assonance of poetics in a helter skelter environment appears dismal with the afternoon freezing mist hanging behind the dull emerald needles in the pine trees. Glass and mirrors are becoming concerns. Do I have enough material on my mind that necessitates writing the truth? Yes, but not within the proportions of an encouraging reconciliation. My view of policing units, for instance, has frayed in its conceptions. I feel that policing apparatus has become an exercise in mental illness and that jail and prison systems only encourage the debasement of law in terms of financing and execution of anarchic imprisonment. I don't want to see the police, on the road or in person. I also don't want to see that many people in person or talk to them. Not that I am that reclusive, but it is cold out and the temperament of certain individuals I have shared time with in the past seems to rest on their narcotics habit. I am debating borrowing money for beer. The outpost here is slightly warm but it is snowing outside now. The prospect of beer seems like a benevolent exercise in abating the fringe beginnings of emotive paranoia. I get worried, especially when considering the past cruelties of a life spent under the scrutiny and persecution of insane executors of speech, word, and action.
If I had friends, we could listen to music and embrace each other, and if I had a girlfriend, I would kiss her lips deeply over a bottle of wine. I don't really like discussing love that much these days, but for a week there was a flux of interested parties who I vetted before sorting my relationship options down to solely myself. It is cold and slightly harsh in the mountainous environment, I have no spare space for a lover, and it can be frustrating enough to carry on with the housemates. I wonder now what the future allotments in life entail. Do they exist as reminders of times past, as fluctuations of immediate Beinghood, or as gold symbols that regard the future tense as possibility instead of probable happenstance? Is the future warm or cold, hot or dark, thin, or ample? I want to embrace a woman of age, smell her ample perfume, and have her respond in kind, and maybe have her present me with flowers in the middle of a sparse and hard won winter. I am not a psychopath or errant, I am not a fool and I am not a masochist, but these qualities have seemed to stop relationship prospects, or is it my capability and willingness for truth telling at any cost or outcome?
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