Late night. early morning. Coffee fix. Cornflakes with milk that tastes nothing like milk. Will attempt to find perfect milk for cornflakes. Contemplate going back to Apple and Cinnamon clusters with sour yoghurt. That tastes more natural. Wonder what they put in that milk, loads of sugar for one. Impure. Sick of impurity. Gross. Sick of the trivial. So draining. Fake smiles, ingeniune. Makes me puke. The glass ball that keeps my soul calm is starting to crack. Fed with a bit too much. Big platters of trivial crap. The last straw is the ingeniune comments on my newly acquired job. Trivial insincere glorification of the temporary. Grateful nonetheless for the wheels to keep turning. time to take the garbage out.
Early morning. Coffee fix. Things to do plague the mind. The soul learns to accommodate pressure. The glass ball cracks nonetheless. Cannot wait for the day I shan't need no glass ball no more. Annoying piece of thing. Learning, learning to see what makes glass ball break. Managing glass ball. Plate by plate. Sometimes it is good when it breaks. New glass balls can take so much more. Nevertheless, learning to manage the glass ball deposits are a good thing, then I don't have to come to this place that often. A place to hide when it explodes.
I run and knock on the door of the glass ball maker, yet again. My glass ball exploded today. I know because every movement hurts my flesh and it is starting to bleed. Bleeding makes me swear, and irritable, much. The pieces of broken glass is beginning to protrude through making it quite noticeable to the public. I need to take the garbage out. Painful process that, for the glass ball maker is a tedious one indeed, he never puts a new glass ball before removing each and every piece stuck in the flesh. I hate glass ball explosions.
Fake hugs, fake smiles does not sit well in my little glass ball, and yet the flesh is tired of sowing them in others. Today anyway. It is slightly tired. So the poor little glass ball is filled with intolerance of them fake smiles and fake kisses I reap. I wanna take the trash out. Trivialities of things that don't matter much. Shallow bottomed pans that stew no good relations. Intolerable. The tongue swears a little. The glass cracks a little. The lifts open and I enter to find every single button lit up. I get out and waited for the next. Today it bothered me, having to stop on every other floor because of some itchy fingers. Intolerant. Intolerant of shallow pans that stew no good relations. Intolerant. Intolerant of itchy fingers that cracks others' glass balls. Please I am pleading do not crack mine, itchy fingers, do not.
Non-functioning brains autmotically takes me along the road I usually take - which isn't the right way to where I wanted to go. Ok so take the long way there. Glass cracks. I hear it cracking. Oh it is not good. Not good indeed. Missing some. Loving some. Love soothes them cracks, for a while until the walking flesh lets in the annoyance caused by a broken parking machine, repeated fire drills, and a lot of walking, just to find a place to pay so I can get out. Swear words surface and the glass ball rattles. The glass ball rattles and the stomach begins to grumble as it yearns for the calm couch in front of Dr Dorian and his friends. It makes me laugh. Laughter soothes that glass ball which...
It rattles. And then I felt it. Gushing right through my body was an ache. And I know, the layer of flesh surrounding the glass ball is now beginning to bleed. Glass pieces embeds itself in the flesh as the glass ball breaks. Into a million pieces. There goes my poise. Soul stress breaksthrough to the flesh. Fair enough. It was the flesh that causes its stress anyhow. But now I have to clean up the mess again. A visit to the glass ball maker. Maybe later.
I sit and let bleed. I want hot soup and mother's hugs. They often soothe the walk to the glass ball maker. I want to throw my shoes at the glass ball maker and throw my trash at him. So I run there. I can't help thinking how much I hate empty faces, and broken spaces. I hate. I so veyr hate. I can't help thinking how much I hate to find rootless trees, and broken dreams. I hate seeing the half-filled glasses I could not fill. I hate the trivial things that make my glass ball break. Rubbish. Rubbishy rubbish like phony smiles and trashy itchy fingers. I wonder if the work of my hands are empty cans. Disgust. Once again. I hate. I so very hate. I think it's about time I empty my trash.
I run, sorry for the times I fill that glass ball with rubbish it cannot take. Maybe next time I will empty out the trash before it explodes. Freaking glass ball explosions. I so very hate.
Hello glass ball maker. *#@* $*#* (#(@ ((#(...
Sit down dear child, sit.
Oh boy...here comes the tweezers.....
