I am frazzled and disjointed, disconnected and maladjusted.

Hungrily yearning, manically stirring, tempestuously swirling.

I am disillusioned, disconcerted, and disenchanted.

And that is the vacuum of nothing, of disarray.

And of all nothing some something must arise.

Some creation from annihilation.

Even Nietzsche thought something of nothing.

Uh huh, you have exposed me.  I do not feel nothing but am rather hiding something.

Something that I have chosen to lock fearfully into the safety deposit box of my mind.

Something that I am frightfully certain will be held against me in the court of public opinion.

Alright, I’ll confess the mess.  It is this and simply this.  That I am a subversive.

That I am considering you.

That I am dreaming of you.

That I am imagining we are friends.

That we are lovers.

That we are benevolent.

That we are feasting together as one great family.

That we have resolved conflict.

That I have vowed a promise to you.  It is this;  That I will not step on you for my own gain from fear that you will take advantage of me.

That we have—–Uh huh, so have you?  I didn’t hear that, but I thought I saw you blink acquiescently.  But then. . . . . we don’t speak. . . . . How incredibly unfortunate.

Michael Lonchar   6/2011

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