meh.

“excuse me, want to buy some paradise?”

I rejected before I even understood what was being said. 

Well yes, if I was being honest, but you - mr. paradise peddler, can’t possibly provide the true paradise I crave. 

The paradise you promise isn’t the sacred kind. Yours is the one of instant gratification, of desperate promises, and shiny object syndrome.

Mine is made of musical stardust, eye gazes that feel like mouth kisses, pink and purple sunsets, and freedom that spans the length of the desert - that one I saw for miles and miles, when it was windy and warm and felt like forever. 

Sometimes I feel like I’m on the precipice of divinity, of the dream being actualized, I can taste it, smell it, I see it clearer on the screen of my skull than that of my real, green eyed blurry vision.

But then, it always seems like the bottom falls out, and up feels like down, and the blues hits me hard, like that low tone of a stand up bass guitar. 

But you’re really not that far from there, nothing has changed since yesterday. You are still you. But your head went somewhere else. To a land that feels all too real, gravitationally painful, dense in matter and disappointingly dull. But that happens sometimes when your head splits open.

The truth? I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to. But I’m also not entirely too sure it exists. Truth is entirely situational, perspective oriented, goal based and dependent upon the day of the week. 

Can we turn this thing off? I can never seem to find that off switch for my mind. 

Let’s go now, and wash this ego chatter off in a hot shower. You’ll wake up to God tomorrow morning, on a walk in the sunshine and forget all this murmuring nonsense. and all will be well. all is already well. and so are you my dear. so are you.