April 25, 2006 - 7:53 p.m.
Poetic words written by a pot calling the kettle BLACK. Shouting from the lines of text. If titles resemble Ben & Jerry's ice-cream, whole lotta complaints goin' on with the ACLU this week. We've become so politically correct as a nation that we can no longer label ice-cream Black & Tan... two, distinct colors. What next? Removal from the crayon box.
Black is the color most associated with depression. It happens to match everything in my closet. I prefer black shirts, pants, shoes to most anything. Maybe it's my own badge of honor. Fighting the genetic makeup of my DNA. I have to overcome a natural tendency to be depressed and melancholy. I think the litmus test is one of self-preservation and not hurting oneself or other people.
Words imply responsibility and action. From a contractual basis, written words are more binding. Oral words difficult to enforce. Subliminal words impossible; the realm of secret poets and writers. Allowing oneself the anonymity and protection of a pen name, nom de plume. You walking alone on a country road. Curled up in a fetal position on the couch. Blaming me and the world for your loneliness. How about a shot of whiskey, direct approach. Beginning with your real name and phone number. Changing jobs and names on a frequent basis. What are you hiding from? Avoiding?
I have empathy and compassion for most people. Unless they deliberately hurt someone for personal gain. Accidents do happen. But there is a fine line between living the truth and pretending to be someone else. Truth is easier to remember. Truth will surface unexpectantly. And you are left with the deck of cards, collapsed lung. Am I suppose to feel sorry for you. Chain-smoking all these years.
I'll hush now and go about my business. Reading between the lines will make you blind... in need of reading glasses.
~ Soldier Girl
