No Particular Reason

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I think about it, and with a little effort, I’m sure as hell I’d know who that healthy passenger or crew member is, that had ham or green peas and farted into the beautiful sky while at an altitude of 20 thousand foot. I can even tell if it was just ham or just green peas that (s)he had, or both, also in which order and quantity, if at all (s)he had both. I can as well tell if it was a group farting in ultimate unison. But for the life of me, I don’t know why I cry sometimes for no particular reason. Is it due to malfunctioned hyperosmia that affected my brain, and half way through impacting my nose forgot to do so, and left me with melancholia?

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Lone Wanderer

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I wonder what you seek in those
lone wanderers you come across
as you take rounds
gazing all the way into the
dark corners of their hearts
that lit up by the brilliance of your beauty
as they reclaim, and reveal theirs
to their forgotten selves;
beauty that lasts for moments as they
lose themselves to you in
moments that’re willfully vulnerable,
and full of love they seek;
the same love they once were fortunate enough
to have received,
or have had the greater luck of finding one who could
find meaning in the love that was given.

Is that what you seek, too,
you lone wanderer?

The Fall

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“Who would I tell how much it hurts
watching the branches go bare
as they let go of the leaves that they
once held so dear, so tight,
and I’m to be labelled
‘The Fall, that finds its glory in the leaves falling dead.’
while, I, indeed, am among the fallen leaves that lie lifeless,
hoping they rise them from dead,
for one last time, just so I can
tell them that it was the
very breeze that once taught them to
swing, and dance, and fly;
left, and right, up, and down;
and the very tree that cared, and held them
from falling, are the ones that abandoned
and took their lives, watched them die,
threw them dead to ground,
and that I’m just a scapegoat
they are accustomed to..
year after year, every year..”`,
weeps “The Fall” into a man
walking on the yellow leaves
lying all over, beautiful even in death,
turning their graveyard underneath into a serene sight.

 

If Only Was It That Easy

A day off work, to get the twitching in my eye checked,
as a nerve on the lower eye lid of the left eye kept unnerving me for couple of weeks now.
Was it the the confidence incited by my eyes deciphering, and coping with the sophisticated zoom-ins and zoom-outs built into the machinery? Or the rather relaxed demeanor of the ophthalmologist in saying, “Well, twitching? That’s ‘nervous’. It happens to some people, and will go off!”, I do not know.
I don’t experience the twitching anymore. Nope. It indeed was temporary. My eyes are just fine. No spectacles required!

On the way back, I yanked a nasty, fugitive plan I’d out of my head, dumped it into the garbage bin, spat on it, and climbed The Tallest Ulm Munster, all the ~160 meters instead. 768 Stufen that is!

A mere 160 meters height had all the mesmerizing view,
eliciting an entirely different point of view.
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The flawless row houses, glass windows at the top for sun to stream in.
Hotels with roof top restaurant to indulge, and dine in.
The untiring Donau,
and the tiring déjà vu of “Am I here now?”

I stood there at the top, perhaps testing my eyes yet again, to see how far could they see, this time, I’d no clue what I was looking at. Or is that the whole point of standing at high point? For the dumb, and dumber in me to try and feel like he’s trying to spot the mark he made, or aiming to make on this eternal universe?
Well, if only was it that easy.