Munches on a vegan sausage and doesn’t care about anything

Published March 18, 2012 by 51percentawesome

They say, she’s in the class A team, covered in white.

Sore feet dancing against yellow tiles on the 5th flight of stairs today. Another platform. Not home yet.

Today I worked 9-5, with an hour overtime. $8.60 for a ten trip pass in the city. Edible Angela, at Naked Espresso.

Today I placed my forehead against an old, stately tree. Humbling. Does it listen, does it respond, to these asian chattering voices? If it can be here, I can.

Today tears effortlessly fell and wet my cheeks as I viewed a painted ceiling. They sing on the third sunday of every month. I’m not Jesus, but I’d like to be more like him. The difference between most and ‘joshua’ is sacrifice for what one knows to be true. I conclude white sugar is as much Satan as anything; a physical fall from grace, a separation from ‘holiness’. The pastor said it is Satan in us when we think we are above God, and to me that sounds like capitalism, cities and air-conditioning.

Last night I embraced him happy birthday, and told him I love him, but didn’t kiss him.

Last night I lay under a fall of hot steam and stared blankly at the candle burning brightly.

Last night the bus got half-way up heartbreak hill before I noticed and cabbed it home, to nice warm simple comfort.

I sleep peacefully once I let go.

The timing is still right. Yesterday I thought this was forever, and (no hard feelings) but today I realised it isn’t. Back to Plan A.

Don’t place your palm down when speaking to someone. Keep your arms unfolded. Live your life as nature intended; these are my truths.

My finger hovers over the stop button. The bus driver fidgets and his eyes dart between the road and his bus schedule; when I speak to him, he is centred and responsive.

Where am I? This game is harder in the dark, I’m living closer to the water than I realised.

This morning I ran out the door and to the stop in a minute and half, picking flowers on my way. The bus and I met, it was one minute late. That’s my life.

One more flight of stairs. With my clothes discarded in the dirty pile, my necklace feels heavy.

Cold, naked and motionless on the couch; half way through some strangers’ life commentary In a science experiment, we would make fascinated rats addicted to such pointless consumption of ultimately empty information. Another shackle of the (consumerist) society keeping us enslaved and disempowered (hello, reader. Like me on Facebook).

Rice cake, hummus, avocado, tahini, herb salt.  Buckwheat pancakes on the phone recounting the day- white sugar down-turned palms folded arms caffeine intolerance- a conversation which cumulated familiarly into ‘Fuck, the world’s fucked’.

Theme track for this season:

(This one was dedicated to Jane xx)


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