In the deepest darkest night, deeper than death

because the dead, don’t have human cares, I write a story to myself

the plot, plods along

the story, takes twists and turns

I enjoy this time—not just to tell a story

but because, I love, spending time, in my own mind

when I can soak in it, like a hot tub, of words

the only light in my warm room, is the bright computer light

it’s a womb

Being born into this real story of bad ideas

that batter and bludgeon

my sacred space

is not my choice

it’s the rain,

that I walk-in

it’s the rainbow

that offers hope

it’s the beautiful stormy sky

that threatens to strike me dead

We are ready to exit this life,

but we don’t know what to do with it.

If someone tells us what to do,

we wonder if it’s true.

Thinking, is the great divide,

from the voices that won’t allow us to hear our own minds

Thinking, is dangerous

because of our dark universe

People like People who are like them

People like People who like them

I don’t like People

and they don’t like me

we think differently

Thoughts show up on my face

I like people who smile at me, like they really like me.

My favorite aunt died today. She died in her sleep at 90.

The worst part about this world is that it’s impersonal.

People aren’t hurt by physical pain,

but by being treated, like they aren’t people.

The impersonal nature of nature,

that doesn’t care, is worse than death.

I enjoy thinking… I can do it anywhere.

There are no prisons. There is no death; only the death of thought.

2 thoughts on “The Death of Thought

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