This morning, the breeze from my fan reminding me to go with the flow whenever I can, and the roll of toilet paper I keep next to my computer should I need to blow my shnoz in a hurry and cough my grass allergy and worries about dying from a heart attack before fifty into a waste basket that echoes how my sadness for feeling like having and being more than enough is never enough,
feel like ancient, immortal, relative gods a demi-god would discover had been guiding him from an unknown, ancient civilization, forgotten beneath the godless world,
like the forgotten cry of angry, Ambien and wine guzzling ex-wives, happier staying asleep than admitting they want a permanent vacation, and no longer know how to look nonjudgmental, but still want to be wanted.
It’s moments like these I imagine my little Buddha statue on the writing desk inside my wooden head saying that judgmental thinking can be distilled into simply realizing you want something you think you’re not good enough to have,
beside it, my trendy Himalayan salt lamp of healing blinking happiness on and off like a friend or loved one pretending to be congratulatory at a birthday party, and why I’m usually not invited to those.