Sunday Morning Thoughts: 1.14.18

Perhaps it is as easy as clicking the wrong button.

It is nice to think that the tiny, infuriating paperclip being would arrive and inquire whether one was sure of their decision. But being nice does not always make it so. And as a result of yesterday’s folly, folks had to huddle together in their bathrooms, basements and where ever else they could find in that island paradise with the hope that would keep them and those they love safe from the ‘I don’t know what’ that they were told was on its way.

We’d like to think our lives, nations and world used to be stable. It used to be better. And maybe such once was the way.

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Sunday Morning Thoughts: 1.7.18

So. I got another stamp in the ol’ passport. And a few more pages gone from blank to scribbles in the pocket notebook I had, with cheesy poetics, dedicated to only being used for travel. A good few leaves filled out, as went with this summer. Though different. Each time, each way, each day- all different. Some passages to be shared. Most, not.

Dear diary, as some friends of mine would like to jest. And perhaps, it is.

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Sunday Morning Thoughts: 12.24.17

As I write, Santa Claus, allegedly, is traveling around the world to deliver goodies to all the nice boys and girls. People have fallen asleep in the arms of someone they love. Warm beds, full bellies and anticipated joys to come when the sun rises.


Someone just died of a heroin overdose. Someone else is drunk, sad and alone. People are hurt, raped and killed. There are people working in jobs they hate. At this very moment. But everyone already knows that.

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Sunday Morning Thoughts: 12.3.17

Oh, sweet and bitter and bittersweet opportunity. A crisis of hopes and realities drawn together in a briefly witnessed moment and provoked by a choice. What to do, what to do?

And maybe quicker than it arrived, off it goes. To the endless depths of wonder, regret and the hypotheticals of former possibilities. Will another approach? Who knows? It certainly stands to argue that no two are quite the same. Circumstantially speaking, the formula of what went down can never be what it was, once it not longer is. All imitations, interpretations or renditions afterward, are just that. Fantasies, of a sort.

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Sunday Morning Thoughts: 11.12.17

I’m late this week. And I missed the week before entirely. Not through intention. Or from doing nothing.

But a Sunday passed with no mutterings from me.

Then, came another. And still, thoughts stuck to my mind only.

And though the ol’ thoughts wandered many a place, I think now of whether missing a week even mattered. Or if anyone aside from myself cared. Or even noticed.
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