Thoughts are things, and things are thoughts, and you, my friend are stuck in a thing pattern. . .
a thought pattern.
And there is no out door.
Except into another pattern.
Your eyes can only see so much.
There are only so many named things, so many kinds of colors.
Or does nature keep delivering infinite shades of orange?
And you can’t see it, partly because you are it?
A darker purple, a lighter purple.
A near purple, a far purple.
Variegated leaves on a designer plant.
What was that person trying to say?
“I have control. I am in charge.”
It’s possible.
And you are stuck in a thing-thought pattern.
How to unlock this one to get on to the next?
Delta, delta, delta.
Eliminate.
Peel back.
Further.
Smell beer from an age so far gone.
Smell wine that could have been Greek kykeon.
A man walks by on his phone, talking to someone about a girl he’s going to hire.
A laugh.
A joke about knee pads.
Then a final thought from him: “We’re going to hell.”
He hangs up.
That man thinks he’s going to an idea created by him for all intents and purposes.
He says it as a joke, but it will come back to him if he sincerely believes in any kind of witchcraft.
Or it won’t, and he’s a genius of the absurd variety – a joker in the deck of kings and queens.
Wondering when the sunflowers will show.
The poppies have come and gone – their own perfect orange.
Petals on the ground.
Why can’t I do something beautiful like that?
Where is the bee that will scatter me?