[Originally posted 21 May 2015]
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ords continue to fail me, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t
write them, I suppose. It’s not as if anybody actually reads what I write. If
I’m merely yelling into the desert winds, well, it doesn’t affect anybody but
me.
At some point I have to come to terms with ruin. Actions have
consequences. Misplaced trust leads to—what? Apathy? I know there’s a train of
thought in there somewhere, if I could only entice it to come forth.
The followers of al-Baghdadi, neither Islamic nor a state by
any reasonable definition, ride roughshod over their little piece of the world
stage, and occupy an inordinate (and unwarranted) space in my mental terrain,
along with such unlikely forms of life as mad tea partiers, libertarians,
criminals and thugs of all descriptions. Hoodlums ye shall always have with
you, as Jesus might have said, but ye shall not always have me. There’s the
limit to it all, that ineffable wall there’s no reaching however many
successive approximations are undertaken.
One of these days, should I live so long, I’ll have something
to say again. In the meantime I’ll recycle old hits and spin gold cobwebs out
of nothing.
1 comment:
Just imagine you're
"... strolling through the park one day
in the merry merry month of May"
and Harry is enjoying the pathside scents, and you're hearing the stream running along, the wind in the leaves overhead-- yes, likely a motor or two, but mostly wind, water, birds ...
Have a good walk. Be well! rfh
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