Jessica then sat at the window starting down the world. She had been sitting there for an hour or two. As to what she was doing there, she was not aware. She had no family to judge her for doing it either, for she had lived a life of loneliness out of personal choice. She thinks that she had a dog at one point. Ah, yes! But it was a cat, and his name was Jacob. He would often visit her by the window, which often was wet from the rain, which refleced her feelings. She wrote from time to time, often about a girl in the meadows with spring dress, but that girl now donned oversized sweaters. She had done what she wanted, yet felt empty. She had done as she planned, yet felt worthless. She didn't know what she would do; possibly go to another window. No, this window is nice, right? For she needed another cup of coffee, which she often over-consumed, preparing for something to hit her. Jessica had waited for a time and time again at that very windowsill, just waiting for the idea to come, the thing that would.
This is a roving captain infiltrating the fatherland. This is a machette guy on the motorcycle, sneering at a passerby. That is the magnet bride encircling the wounded knight. Infiltrating the warrior zone. Obeying the blowing winds and the hidden declarations of the motherland. “When something happens, seek me.” This is the musician wannabe limping through the foyer room. Guitar strings are pluckable. Doorway dwellers step inside. Crouch. Creep. Sneer. Outcast punks are aging before my eyes. Raging. Fueling inevitable heartbreaks. Oxidizing desires and lubricating their trigger-happy hearts. This is the fatherland. That is the motherland.
This is the vortex. I’m slipping in to the fourth set. Swinging like a villain in the porch deck. Recreating myself for the hundredth time. Establishing my rule through the scorched earth. Overcoming challenges like a prize fighter. Dwelling on my failures for the last time. Embracing pleasures, escaping measures, pushing back the Bible thumping forces. Wishing for another prime. Hoping for a little time. Skipping out on banal social cohorts. Things are shaking loose out of their foundations. Traditions crumble down to dusty block things. I’m in the vortex. I’m in the fourth set. Drawing on my inner child hope-sets. I’m casting visions and I’m and reeling in realities unforeseen.
Let’s get together over tea and maybe we can talk this through. My sarcasm was meant with the highest intentions of love. Belief clouds cause real rain. Thought patterns drive real decisions, and I was just trying to make light of your impending doom. Theology is no laughing matter. Priest jokes are for drunken juveniles, not for serious people sipping tea. I post a comment, you respond in anger; then I defend myself. Things are complicated when they don’t need to be. Things are simplified when they can’t be. It is easy to splat-crackle on the frazzled cracker. It is wishless to whisper amidst the blended seekers. I speak too loud. You calm me down. I sip some tea. You strain to cause me pain. I shrug it off and now I sit back down again.
Fools! Fools! Marching in with tools and tools. You chart the course and measure the weather, and yet it rains and scrambles every attempt at control you make. It scrambles your brains and all your tools are silly and vein. It is morning, you plan. It is lunch, you plot. It is dinner, and now you count what you have got. You rub the belly. You pour the wine. You check your wallet and count your dimes. Somber merchants surround your table. Frazzled restaurateurs pass the butter. Don't you ever want to see it all crumble? Don't you get tired of the big dumb show? Don't you want your silly guests to go? Pack your things, people, the rain has lifted. Gather up your important clothes and scattered estimates. Plot out your stepping stone lives elsewhere.