All my friends are sick.
In different ways, of course,
individuality being their unifying constant.
But sick, all the same.
These weirdish days of waits and delays and ever worsening pain and malaise is just what they deem normal.
This dawdling decline into decrepitude is hastened by atmospheric insolence,
thunderheads sulking heavy hunches into agonising lightning strikes.
Limitations shackles dragging back our aspirations into effigies and imitations, bonsai prototypes of dreams.
Making mockery of wellness, these once vital shells dress their despair in decadence and call it art.
Our Kinsugi-ed hearts are stronger for the mending.
And each creation spawned through desperation for distraction gifts the world another opening- beyond which one may escape.
So keep producing wormholes
of connection, of reflection.
Imbibe the time defying expressions
of ancient artists. learn their lessons.
Problems shared are decimated
Perceptions are deceptive and underrated
in their role as shepherd of experience.
Never follow the Judas goat of self pity.
That's a slippy slope into the spiral of shame,
of self neglect, frustration, sorrow and blame.
Instead adopt Marlowe,
“Quod me nutrit me destruit”.
Hedonistically strategic cultural retreat,
driven by necessity of horrors to defeat
Fury’s furnace fuelled, the flames are licking at our feet
until we dance a desperate dance;
the two step tightrope tarantella.
And this corporeal existence passes
out of bounds and interstellar.
