Nothing Changes but the Changes

I have excruciating gas. My intestines feel like balloon-animals painfully wrung through the hands of a curious toddler. Can someone call a doctor? I suspect a ruptured intestine would be a pretty shitty experience. 

I don't know what I've done to deserve such a disobedient stomach. Always, at every opportunity it thwarts me. I think the ghost of a menopausal woman is haunting my digestive tract. I'm in need of an exorcism; a hysterectomy at the very least.

Oh well, all things shall pass, sometimes like kidney-stones. 

This weekend the weather is exceptional; skies of the clearest blue. The kind of days that invite revelry and dancing.

Always we pretend; fortifying our paper-thin narratives behind bullet-proof glass before locking them away in a bank-safe, where we spend our idle hours gazing at their shiny symmetries. Investing deeper, buttressing our beliefs, raising the stock-price. Foolishly we ignore the fact that there is no safe place. There are no guarantees, no assurances. 

There is only swelling possibility - for agony and ecstasy. Cherish the contented moments you are given; you know not which one will be the last. Surrender the painful ones, they will pass.

I've been struggling lately, to continue to write. I feel - maybe wrongly - that when writing well one should not have to try. That the truest expressions of beauty and poetry happen when there is no intention. A tree swaying in the breeze, a child excited by the waves on some sunny shore. 

I feel that sentiment may be one I've expressed previously and it throws into question my ability to communicate an original idea or avoid repetition. Not that repetition in itself is a bad thing. After all, the seasons are quite repetitious, as are our years. Or rather, we expect them to be. We force our insecurities upon nature's artistry and shape it to our notions of what a season should be. To the world there is no Winter, no Fall: there is only a change. As creatures resistant to the very notion, we grasp and scramble for a way to describe this phenomenon - to categorize it - so the change acquires the quality of being static, controllable. When the weather gets colder in October, each year it happens differently from the last. Yet every time we call it Fall. We may remark, during the course of idle conversation, that this year is colder than the last or that it's unexpectedly warm this time around, but generally we purposefully erase the difference and trade it for sameness. 

How strange it is to consider the truest expressions are those spoken in passing, made about the weather.