Black butterfly

Bblech, bleh, blahgh...what will I think of next? 

 Can I never get out of my ever-loving way even for maybe half a minute?  And behold, the two that is me becomes three and fur flies.  You have the heat, I've got the thunder.  Story of my miserable life.  I'm going fishing for a couple of days.  Maybe find a lamb in the road.  Maybe lose myself, but I won't hold my breath.

If I could spend even one quarter of the energy in creative work than I spend on excoriating myself for getting in my own way with all manner of psycho-somatic bullshit I would be indifferent to it all by now.  But it seems that I forget my own strength.  Free will is the very devil.  I'm only a black butterfly dreaming this life, and in the flicker of a swallow's wing will once again awaken, but just now my dream is fitting me a bit tightly around the neck.

I need to distance myself from myself before I expire trying to do what I cannot do, namely sell myself.  I couldn't so much as sell my soul for a nickel. Therefore, merely trying to write an opening for Communions West with the intent of attracting people is like trying to tear myself limb from limb with the aide of my own limbs.  Hell, it's like a tiger trying to promote Vegan burgers while vainly attempting to sound even the least little bit convincing, if only to himself.  The whole business disgusts me.  Maybe that is why I can't come up with so much as a single damn sentence regarding my Any idea, or about my reasons for all. let alone come up with so much as one good reason why people should want to be interested in what I write.

 

 I'm going to bed.

Luvluv,

             Snuffle Schlump