Category: The Wind
Feeling Friendly
Writing on the Beach
Open window trailing words
Blue chemistry falling views
Gleaming explosions gusts of worlds
Wisps of stillness
Enchantment twirls
Life blows in
Inspirations waves
Smashes hurricane
To the page
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Place
Dissapointment compost
Dirt after it rains
The smells it grows
Feeds you from pains
Life Cycle
Somehow knows
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Stepping In Spell
Realms touch
Powers mingle
Magic born
Of fairies
In people
Impossible charmed
Wind alive
Unimagined desire
Dot a dot
Life on fire
Dream physics
Demand require
Honey-dipped moon
Mother heart
Solid revere
Human art
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The Garden
Come to me trolls!
Line up
Line up for kisses
A world needs some more
Lots more handsome princes
Wonder up
Sweet over something
Trip and break one mind
Frolic through answers
Feasting inside
Twist into existence
Leave this window ajar
Re-introduce
Magical spicies into our wild
Daily Post Prompt: Your Inner Dickinson
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Most Prized Possession-My Own Attention
Lost
My Attention
Riot of peace
Currency to pay
My best companion
Fountain of joy
The Observer
Gone away
Kidnapped
Wafted off like smell
Forgotten-what are you?
Wooed away
Trapped
Stuck
Wrapped up by emotions
Squeezed out my mind
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Daily Prompt:
Most Prized Possession:
National Poetry Writing Month
NaPoWriMo:
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Third From The Top
We shouldn’t be best friends
Doesn’t change
In the realm were we are still
Written, unwritten letters
Advice you would give me
It’s “you said”, not “he said”
Because I talk to you
Tipping his head, your head
Back against the mattress
To look up at me
Feels the same remembered
We are not friends anymore
And always best friends
***
Daily Prompt: http://wp.me/p23sd-4tQ
Third from the top: The Size of Life:
Post: Story Try This: “We shouldn’t be best friends,” he said, tipping his head back against the mattress to look up at me.
Related articles
- Odd Couple-Polygamy (waywardspirit.wordpress.com)
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Transporter
The Road for Transport-A Poem
My Most Precious
Willowy sapling Attention
Blown away
Oft transplanted
Run over
Mowed
Uprooted
You may be
A Presence of redwood ent
More than shade fruit or would
Transport-A story
It wasn’t the crush, or a temptation. Her shape and bright color captivated me. But more than that, and deeper. The choice is already made. Discovered this the first time I lay eyes on my iMac.
What is this?
The sales guy gave me the info to back up my preference. The colors enchanted me and fueled mysterious passion. It was so hard to pick one. The Steve Jobs story of exile and come-back woke my asleep. The sudden reinvigorating of the market and turn of share. When I stood close that wind of change, stands my hair on end. I feel it blow. Right there in Best Buy, in the isle, next to the iMac display it blows.
Should have known by then, that choices click into place without explanation. Logic is not banished. It just lives in the other world. I invite her blindly back, slow, by comparing prices and waiting three days to bring my love home with me.
I wanted blueberry. Strawberry was the only refurbished model at Best Buy. That was back, way back before the Apple Store or the Apple Story. In the days of three-point-something-percent market share Apple. When Apple still allowed Best Buy to carry her precious babies. More than the sum of its parts, love at first sight, experienced not described. Love got me. A love story told me.
To compromise with my wallet, I bought a refurbished strawberry iMac rev C. It was three hundred dollars higher than a way-more-options PC, even so.
After I brought Strawberry ShortMac home, two sample chapters of a Steve Job’s story found me. Couldn’t afford the book. That was all I needed.
I received a blueberry printer cover in the mail after ordering a strawberry one from Epson. My taste for blueberry, satisfied. Having two printer covers is luxury endowed. What else can I upgrade with?
I download anything Mac compatible that did anything I might want, and didn’t have. install, try, it. The thing was a lemon. It had issues. I fixed it or called tech support, or both every week. Finally the tech support dude, asked me what I was doing to my computer. Strider wasn’t always there, but I always asked for him, cuz he led you through a Lord of the Rings quest as Malady till your iMac worked again. The guys back at support finally asked why I installed all those patches when the machine was working fine. They were mystified. I wasn’t satisfied.
The software it came with was all good but, I was swept away with upgrading. I wanted it to do things. To do something I didn’t know what, but it was irresistible, to try to find out. That and surfing the net. My computer is the bomb. I love it. I play Nanosaur and Bugdom. My kid and I bought Bugdom before it came with all rev D iMacs. Then, we upgraded Nanosaur.
Chat rooms I discovered are dangerous. After three days achat, I vow to never return.
I love iMac so much, sometimes I just stare at her.
When I sat and just look, at this pink form, noticing it, pink love and wavy feelings bubble up then spout like pink gold, Texas tea. I noticed this and sometimes just sat on the bed staring at my iMac for the joy of the delicious feelings that came up. She was my first computer. I’d been hurt-bored by the sea of old sandstone hardware. She though, is gleeful to behold.
Sometimes I’d look at other beautiful things. The angles of my rustic pinewood chair, just so in the light were I’d set it to sweep the dining nook. It’s beauty makes everything soft, the world shimmer. Swept air tastes me, time stands still, the feeling delivers me to the glory my iMac feels of. The floor is clean, a vast place to sit and be eternally swept away. So there I sit and let it. My iMac is happy. I’m happy, and there will there be upgrades for her, that really do stuff. The thought feels like a first encounter. Yes!
Again, pointless love at first sight thought. Feeling rushes crashes on me like the surf. New cool upgrades! I wonder what they will be. I sit in that meditation while a love for something that I want, that feels human, maps a place in me that has always been there. Steve Jobs and Apple are making something I can’t live without. When I checked out the newest stuff though, it was not there… There was noting I couldn’t live without. I was pretty happy with my Mac and printer, anyway.
This kept happening.
Meditation gets intense: iMac, Steve Jobs, Apple, making something for me surges up like candy ocean. When I stay there in the feeling intensity billows like clouds of light making it with lightning. They turn into a river of gratitude for this thing I want that Apple is making for me. It about bursts my chest, till I let it strike me, while I focus on Steve Jobs making this, and flow it to him. Then just like that chaos storm turns river. Washed through intense emotions of rushing light serene flowing, a delicious river in an artery of gratitude to the guy, who is making something for me.
Almost every time I meditate it happens. The feeling, this delight about the new something. It tumbles my feelings into explosive gratitude firing up water turbines, shooting a six-foot cable of light at me. I focus it on Steve Jobs and Apple. Like focusing on the feeling of being in love, with delicious electric current flowing fast as light yet still. A pre-emptive strike of ferocious gratitude. I sit with it till the fireworks turn off.
Multi-colored iMacs thrill me. I kept the folded pictures in my school bag. I can look at it when I want. Not because I need a new computer. The picture induces idolatrous transports like porn.
For a months this happened a few times a week. Then less. After a while I could look at my iMac and focus and nothing would happen.
Other things came up and turned into tornadoes and reflected different places. None felt like a heavenly river of light though. And every year even after the years of the experience dwindled, I’d check out what the hell I was expecting and still don’t find anything earthshaking at Apple.
Bought my second iMac. Nothing special Apple is making for me happened. She is my friend. And I figure she chose to come home with me. She and I bond and enjoy each others company. My new mac is my friend, too.
Then, last year, I got an android smart phone. Blasphemy. I wanted an iPhone. This phone fell into my lap just when I needed it bad and had no other way.
A few weeks later, I’m out with my phone in hand walking in a fascinating wood feeling connected to the world in a friendly intimate way by my phone. A whisper from the Earth’s every voice resonates low in me. Wonder strikes my inner, deeper echo place. Not lightning struck, voice of the world deep rock struck.
Oh, so this is it.
Hmmh no wonder!
It makes no sense.
It makes perfect sense!
Ha! This is what all that advance gratitude was about!
Oh, I love my android, and the World it holds in the webbed palm of my hand.
I love my friend, my phone. I smile when I think of Steve Jobs.
I never met, never saw him. Never wrote and mailed, or talked to him.
One day though, my heart broke in an instant as I raked last years leaves in midsummer Texas heat. Grief torrents and whips me like a blizzard without provocation. Sinking to a log on the ground I weep like a child. My parter thinks I’m crazy for suddenly putting down the rake in subdued grief. Sitting, there, I cry bitter tears for half an hour. Something about my iMac and a dear friend has died. I can’t explain it.
Next day I find out.
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The Social Network-City of Light
A City of Light
Star light rapids
Pillar of day
Water rafters
Sweep hearts clean
Hearts swept away
Ravished blood night
Unimagined communion
Daily Post Daily Prompt: City of Light:
National Poetry Writing Month:
NaPoWriMo: http://wp.me/pf2B5-48H
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Odd Couple-Polygamy
Rumors preceded him.
She sneaked out to check out the rumors.
This new preacher had it real.
He plants passion
She thought he was handsome.
She was nineteen.
He thirty-nine.
She was a belle at high school.
He had four wives.
She saw him float right off the floor, lifted up by light, knew she would marry him, the presence of some horror she never met, leered at her from the audience.
He moved the crowd left them swaying, went off to a meeting.
She followed him, got his attention, informed him she would be his wife.
He said when I came back to town.
He did. She was ready.
I am their tenth child, counting the ones who didn’t grow up.
They believed in me.
I was their purpose.
Conceived in a Mexican jail.
Born while he stood trial.
She sold my home to bribe the judge.
To give the world my little brothers.
Their purpose was their passion.
They weren’t right.
Yet, in some matters, the matters of their passion, what really matters, they were right on target.
Kids and grown ups feel the same being bullied.
Being bullied.
Becoming bullies back.
The good old USA declared open season on Mormons, by Congress jokes and bullying.
They were not allowed to marry whomever their passion dictated, from the beginning.
They weren’t.
History would have been different if they had been.
But that would make a boring story.
Daily Post
Daily Prompt: Odd Couple
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Trading Places/Happy Happy Joy Joy!
I’m so wanting to believe in people-including the weaker sex. The tits-bated weaker sex. The devoid of reason and control by tits, lured to their death by mermaids, trapable weaker sex. I’m wanting to believe they are not a mistake. Girls-next-door, church lady or stripper, it’s a continual, universal wonder. What’s up with men and tits, woman or whatever?
I’m wondering. Wondering and asking for four years now. I always get answers. So what then? What?
Looking at my breasts in the mirror, to me, is about as enchanting as looking at my hands without a manicure. At least done nails thrill me like adorable outfits. I love looking at my outfits, any outfits. Fashion, outfits, hair, makeup, yummy costumes captivate me, but not bare tits. Tits in lift up lace or leather? Hell yeah. It’s the leather. Trust me, it’s the design, the angles, the style shaped around the tits, tits in a bodice not tits themselves. For sure, not my pretty tits. Not mine, not anyone’s. But really, much less my own. Breasts are for decoration, as far as visual pleasure. That’s it for me.
Breasts and feminine beauty make me feel lovely and captivating when I see them. I never want to touch them. Except maybe out of curiosity, or the softness of the fabric they are tightly laced up in. When I see it, it makes me feel: That is for me! I am this beautiful. Same reason I love romances. It’s how it makes me feel about me. It’s about me. It’s how I feel romanced, loved, worshiped, adored. Tits have almost nothing to do with it, except the feeling seeing them gives me that mine are beautiful. That I am all this beautiful.
Men though, they go retarded instantly over any pair of tits.
Yeah, I don’t trust men.
There is just something sinister in their weakness for tits.
Not only chaste wifely woman think so.
Why do guys always try to get a twenty-dollar dance for ten?
Oh, I so hate that!
It’s so insulting.
I know. It’s belittling.
I just turn around and walk away. I won’t even deal with that kind of customer.
I know, it just brings you down. It devalues us as dancers.
Yeah, it makes me so mad. How would he feel it he wasn’t paid for his work? When ever I go for that stupid deal, I just feel not worth full price.
Yep, ruins your whole night. They keep insulting us with stupid offers.
Grabby guys and ten-dollar guys, the worst!
I don’t know, but what’s up with men in general?
A tits-switch flips their brain cells off.
Just like that. You can’t trust it.
I want to. But.
Oh, god, I know!
I buy into Michelle O’Donnell’s view that God or Allah, or Universal Evolutionary Impulse, or Whatever, did not make the obvious mistake. I mean didn’t make a mistake (even the obvious one) when men were created or wired or whatever, wrong. Wrong. A mistake. But Life doesn’t make mistakes so….?
I mean when I love someone, any other flexed biceps are irrelevant. There is actually only one man in the world. This wonderful utopia doesn’t seem to apply to men. Even when they sing about it, cuz it’s what the stronger sex wants to hear. Or something. I don’t get it.
This question had a lot of chances to be asked.
Wow, this guy is not asking me to have sex for money!
Wait, he is. Who or what do you think I am? Pause. I defer to the mind of “God” on this matter. I understand there is a bigger truth I do not see. I defiantly do not see it!. I trust men are created right, for a reason and not a mistake. Takes deep breath. Sighs. I need help.
No thanks for your kind offer. I dance. That’s all. I only dance and the laws apply.
The question burns like the bright incandescent lamp that always goes out.
My wtf idea of men, is not the truth about men. But I don’t know what the truth is. I really don’t. It’s super annoying.
No, you can’t touch.
Little Tommy, you can’t touch Little Betty that way…
But that day, that one day, everything changed.
It was a normal day. The ten dollars left in my left fitted jeans’ pocket feel good. I had paid my bills and paid off all that debt. I’m ten dollars ahead and ready to start saving. Yeah.
I’m in the zone dressing to go out running when a glance up at my topless reflection in the bedroom mirror captivates me.
I glance, in passing, in the mirror its my tits.
Those. Yes!
Tits! It’s a instinctual wild animal reaction. My whole body shouts out rippling joy. Joy’s crashing waves of smashing euphoria irresistible pleasure.
The mirror’s treasure, edible bliss! I must have. I must touch, now. Reaching where no does not exist. Water after dry days in desert intensity, this cool waterfall of deliciousness palm trees shade smiles all for me to swim in taste, feel with my whole body, tongue electrified, lightning stricken mind, on divine fire, missile target smitten emotions lunge at all this satisfaction just for me. For me!
Oh wait, I better something… as I leap, one arm reaching grasping for heaven, the other reaches for the bill in my pocket. Here! Take it! I must touch! It’s all I have! Take it, please!
If I had 500, I would say the same thing. Or a thousand. Or five thousand. Or whatever…
Then. My reflection is a reflection. I am myself again.
The earthshaking pleasure, in a river of chocolate I taste with every pore of my body, and the vast space of tasted mind, the ease the universal delight of dessert, tastable delights walking around everywhere in my whole world vanishes.
I don’t’ know how anyone can live, or not live, like that.
No words suffice for the world men live.
Goddam God! No mistake made! Question answered. Got it. Okay.
The intense rushing cascades of joy from just seeing and feeling, wanting to touch!
Never felt anything even remotely like it. There are no words. Nothing comes close. My emotions are just as intense and delightful, but its even the same taste bud. Indescribable heaven of physical desire.
I don’t even understand how men handle this so exceptionally well. I, I couldn’t handle it. I’d go around tasting everything, begging, borrowing and stealing, more, more! What a wonderful world! Wow God. You knew what you were doing. What a sexy world!
I understand now why a man would feel like he is hungry and being deprived of all this amazing food. It sits there wasted while he starves. He steals it, of course! What starved person wouldn’t. It’s stupid like: “A mans steals a loaf of bread and shit goes down.” I might even have just taken it in that moment. No handle on restraint, no practice, no understanding of the harm it could cause to the wonder of beauty dessert.
Hopefully “she” would have been a big enough slut to accept my ten.
Porque yo no respondo!
Because I can’t be held responsible for what I might have done!
…Men are intensely vulnerable, sweet and lucky.
Creation is fucking awesome.
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The Daily Post
Daily Prompt: Trading Places
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Stranded Runaways -Daily Prompt
Tosh was like that. Her voice electrified empowered, drove like a wireless tool.
You guys are getting out of here, now. Her tone is final. Get your asses out! You will never come back here again.
It came to this. A long whispered navigation through our non-options, huddled in the visiting room hoping it wasn’t being recorded.
You have to get out of here. You know it. Her voice went down instead of up. You will disappear.
Goodbye good luck and good riddance.
We knew she meant the situation, not us. We huddled and hugged. I don’t know how, but you are going to do it. I am willing it. So, you know it will happen.
It started to happen. We did our best. Now, instead of visiting her in Tuiles County Jail again this weekend, we are stranded. Stranded on the Mexican side of the border in Nogales with no money, no gas, not a crumb of smuggled food left. It’s hot, hungry, scary as thirsty hell. No friend, no place to show up. Not even to park. No gas to go on. Nowhere to sleep after two bat flying nights and bleary eyed days without a stop on the oil dripped road. Except to pee re-oil.
We were six. All under seventeen. All running away from different foster homes in Salt Lake City. All crammed into the belly of the beast, taking turns driving. I am fifteen, but my twelve-year-old brother drives my turn. I just prayed and shook, shook and prayed. They drove the thousand miles to the freedom of the Mexican border.
We got across it too, with just a social security card.
Mexican delightful air feels free light, a breathable shout of joy. The morbid weight of being caught, taken back to testify again vanishes. I’m too tired to shout, so I skip a little, smiling with my whole body. When I look around, five others had the same relived triamph glow on their faces. The air in Mexico tastes good. But it is hungry air, going nowhere.
Gas should have run out near Flagstaff, by Estephania’s summer school mile-per-gallon calculations. That was hundreds of miles ago.
We hadn’t expected to eat. Who knew. This car hadn’t been pillaged yet. Estephania secretly bought this beast three days ago with school clothes money. We stole licence plates for it off a same looking abandoned, sorta, car. Then kidnapped our younger brothers. They searched my little brothers, did, and scored 50 cents from between the seats. So from nothing we went to having a whole kilo of fresh tortillas from a Tortilleria. The best tortillas I ever remember smelling tasting, slow chewing. The only thing left from the picnic basket was salt. We didn’t even dream of butter. Okay, we did, but salt was still perfect.
Pulling over out of town parking and sleeping on the ground for two days didn’t improve our mood. The boys found water. That improved our survival.
I found acorns in the leaves we laid on. If you can stand the bitter, and focus on gathering and cracking little handfuls, you don’t have to stay hungry, a germ at a time. But I was still so hungry from not wanting to do that and the bitter was worse than hunger. Fasting is at least worth something.
So, I am fasting. Pretending I am fasting. Way to bitter not to. Finding a way to survive in the wilderness had been on my bucket list. Check.
We will survive! We will make it back home to the kids.
But shit! We need a better plan.
None came. Every possible one failed depressing us more every time we talked.
Two edgy sweat-filled ravenous days drowning in knowing we couldn’t go forward jackhammered the resolve in our eyes. But it didn’t move the picture of resolve in Tosh’s eyes from our inner eyes.
That last night driving to the border knowing gas would run out any second was war. The invisible enemy guns aimed at us. Ambush any second. We would be caught and skinned. Being caught, just the thought, made my stomach fall into the bottomless pit where my heart was.
All it would take is one cop to look twice. Out of gas and no way to buy any was a ticket straight back to foster homes. We wouldn’t see Tosh either, then. After all Sgt. Vogtechy wouldn’t bother to drive six of us all day to see our sister once a week, again after this, would he? Now we ran. The hollow spirit creeps of murdered eye sparkle, sucked at my soul. Life would suck unimaginably worse than before if we were caught and taken back there again. We would be caught prison escapees. Cruel. Punishing. Looks.
Besides we would have failed. Failed. So, so much worse! The wrath of God was supposed to be worse, but wrath of my foster parents totally trips me.
I feared the betrayal in their eyes. In hers it wold be shooting aimed fire. Withering. I know it’s there. They won’t understand. Can’t explain it. Those looks I sense drive me mad. Mad!
Betrayal is in his eyes. That I dare not even imagine. I can’t be thinking of it now, it drives a tornado ice drill. So I don’t. His eyes, hurt more than hers in wherever something I don’t understand.
Nothing to do.
Drive to where the gas will take us.
It takes us to the Judicial checkpoint outside Nogales. They won’t let us by.
Vayanse! Get out of here. You can’t come through.
Nowhere to go. The relief from being out of the USA is tangible. None of us is willing to go one inch closer to that place by turning around and driving back.
You kids aren’t either Mexicans.
Show me your papers.
The car’s got no papers either?
Go back were you came from or we are going to have to confiscate your car. It’s not ever your car is it?
We looked at him shrugging with our eyes. Looked at each other. We know judiciales pick and choose what they confiscate. This old four door green dinosaur Ford wouldn’t make the cut. We are embarrassed driving it. Though just then, we were beyond all embarrassment. Unmoved, we just sit there. He just stood there. Crossed his arms. Fidgeted. Walked away. Came back.
You guys are not getting by. Please leave. Now.
We didn’t. He hurried off to check out new arrivals.
We are frozen. In limbo too exhausted to move. We sat there indefinitely.
Quitense! Get out of the way! Other people want to get through.
We pulled the car to the side. Nothing else came to mind. Nowhere to go. Stunned we sat staring straight ahead staying out of each others fried terrified thoughts.
I need help! We need help! Falling falling into the well, down down were my heart is in the pit. I give up, whatever this is. God You gotta handle this!
The dust doesn’t settle. We do, right out of the way, on the side of the road next to the through lanes. We parked and stayed.
We just stayed there.
Then a surreal crazy man in a judicial uniform burst out of the dust and sun and silence.
Vayanse! Vayanse ninos!
A frustrated Judicial was waving his arms shouting. Get out of here kids! Just get the hell out of here! This time, he was waving us forward.
We drove on.
No gas. No money. A few hundred miles through the desert to Caborca.
We drove.
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Impossible Things
Dreams have no choice but to come true!
What would you do if you were a dream?
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ITNJ Writing Challenge-iEvil Mastermind
Why not just suck out all the money? Everyone is creepy oblivious. It’s simple, easy and just a mater of tweaks and time. The law is on my side. Besides it’s a big fun risky game of Monopoly. Not like there is anyone who can play against me. It’s boring when you don’t have a nemesis!
I turn evil and do LeClown wicked when I can’t take it like that anymore.
If I were a money mastermind, though, I would have to answer the question to myself, for myself.
Who or what would be my Lady Godiva?
ITNJs, two percent of the population? That’s it? We are rare awesomeness! Each with magnified unique gifts, too.
No wonder…on the grandiosity issues. How do you feel when you figure out you have this crazy super power? No one would believe this!…Till you show them like Steve and Warren and Aaron.
How the hell are we supposed to meet each other when we are so few and all hiding out with our extraordinary, opposite gifts?
Oh, yeah, intuition and serendipity…Can you consciously count on destiny and “divine intervention” when you are totally logical? The two don’t mix here.
Must be why we are misfits, not-well-adjusted, misunderstood, gone evil, so often.
What does it take to intervene for would-be-evil-masterminds before our gifts rot from un-acknowledge, misuse, misdirect, too-avant-garde-reject?
Irresistible game, that money one. If I could see money-flow patterns like I see other patterns, I would need to do something with it, like Warren does. I would need a Lady Godiva to help me answer my question about it, too.
If I can’t find an outlet for my genius, something that matters to serve, I will turn evil. I will play. Or I’ll just kill myself, like Aaron. Or kill other people, or systems. I am dangerous or a super hero. I am a mastermind.
What inspires me to help the 98% when I decide my goal?
I will play you my 98%. I will play you some way.
It’s not like I have a choice. It’s the game fire in my heart. I have to find it and keep it burning, like Mary Lou Retton said, or go mad.
My dad was an evil mastermind. I am a mastermind. It’s up to my environment whether I turn evil or serve daring greatly. I think it was sorta up to his, too. We all have a choice, yes. Dumb people make that choice lean pretty steep toward evil for a rejected superhero. The story and interpretation matters, too.
Either that or he was Lucifer’s immaculate conception. Makes me one-third daemon.
Thanks dad for the genes. Thanks everyone else who “knows” my dad is evil for the daemon part.
And if you don’t understand. You try on being Hitler’s kid for five minutes.
Who’s your daddy?
Adolph Hitler.
___________!!!
Really. Try it.
Being Ervil LeBaron’s daughter, that’s what it fucking feels like. Well it did. Till I realized: If he is Darth Vadar, I am Princess Leia. The probability of my turning evil greatly decreased with this story. Beware anyway.
The funnest part of being Ervil LeBaron’s kid though, and no amount of explanation or Luke Skywalkering changes it, is that half of my brother’s and sisters are in prison, or mental hospitals. Did I mention evil?
Weird that those of us who are not institutionalized are rocking the world with awesome innovation, leadership, character, technology, art, emotional work, vulnerability, love and daring.
Except me. I’m the one who lost the rat race. Too introverted, intuitive, thinking judgement all to an autistic degree, and way to into stuff, way to far, way to long before it trends, to be useful.
So, I figure something is a little off in the system. I love the system and my family and people, yet we are all still off. You know, the usual. Everyone and everything is off. Off, sick, painful and lovable.
Just like our evil masterminds. Just like me.
I am the 98% to other evil masterminds.
So, Ninety-Eight Percent, we create our own leaders. We focus our own genius mastermind’s hearts.
Lets get better at it. Blaming whoever we give away our power to when shit happens or shit doesn’t is fishy and fail.
We masterminds are at your service.
Getting everyone out of messes like all the bad things going on in our world, piece of cake to us. Impossible to you.
We want and need understanding, respect and honor just like anyone else, no matter how much money power or whatever pattern we master. Serving thrills us like it thrills you. We value meaning like everyone else.
We will play.
Might as well charm us into playing with you, for you.
Or we will rot, die, or be charmed tricked or tempted into playing against you, or killing you. There are lots of ways.
When you need the one of us who is the Jaws Of Life, you don’t have her. You have imprisoned her and rusted your own precious tool.
Now, she can’t help you. You get to watch people explode, bleed to death.
Note: Society’s best mastermind tool X Men solutions are likely in prison or mental institutions, homeless, starving artists, or sliding there now.
The solution is always found inside the problem.
Yeah, I know. This topic is not trending yet.
It will.
You are ahead of the game now, weather 98% or 2%.
Link to INTJ definition:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/INTJ
INTJs are one of the rarest of the sixteen personality types, and account for about 1–4% of the population.[2][3]
INTJ (introversion, intuition, thinking, judgment) is an abbreviation used in the publications of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator(MBTI) to refer to one of the sixteen personality types.[1]
This article is about the Myers-Briggs personality type. For the Socionics INTj, see Logical Intuitive Introvert.
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Menagerie-Daily Prompt
She pets me
She is my pet
Sometimes we go to sea
I through her
She lives in me
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Abstraction-Weekly Writing Challenge
As I read this, I hear the voice inside my head reading this.
Hello Voice.
As I read, I hear you reading.
When I notice.
Why are you an abstraction?
Oh!
Hello Abstract Me.
waywardspirit 