sprinkle it on, call it god. and so it is.

I had a dream of sitting in complete silence. Its absurd to be a burden to yourself.. to not live freely and for language not to work how you want and for eyes to not do the thing intended for them..by the great big Intender of Things... that is, and are, ourselves and everything and you and my blanket and your love and my indecision.
Certainty, it comes, it goes. Most certainly,  certainty never stays for long. Burdened. What do I offer?
And then, to peel it off, to be a symbol of your own experience and offer nothing and suddenly, you're being received and receiving, seeing and being seen..neglecting to hope for anything. Like what, a chicken sandwich? Greek yogurt.
I, being truly and classically woman, take the espresso chocolate cake out of the fridge at 2 am, though I am still full from the dinner I ate six hours ago, half intuitively and half wishfully open the front door for my silent cat who tonight decides not to roam in the cold, but to hop in my lap and lie on his back and paw the air in ecstasy as I massage his belly and simultaneously try to eat the cake. Truly and classically feline.
Irresistible and inconvenient.
I said killer whale but what I was really thinking is: sperm whale.spermwhale. Sometimes I just can't think of words. I thought, "semen whale." No, not right. The conversation the whale was sandwiched in pertained to my linguistic abilities.
Most the time the right word eludes me, even if the word is spoon or ostrich or ..well, ..
For this reason, along with how my muses are tiny insects I can hardly recognize until I smash them, spill my juice and scare the cat away, writing as any sort of profession is far too daunting a ...I can't think of the word...
no, really.
And I don't want to think any harder on it...I know there's a word for that spot, but maybe that's my style. Along with my true and original nature, I've been looking for my style. Are these searches diametrically opposed...do we contain style as our essential selves? Probably, yeah, I know that true style is an expression of the comfort resting in the, our, yours, my true nature. The pants don't matter.
Probably nature dictates our most eloquent style after funny haircuts and when you forget to think about your weight and shape and size..the best hair and shapes come out.
I'm not sure of my style or how close I am to liberation, but the cat just might sleep through the night to the right of my legs on top of the down comforter and in front of the space heater in my queen bed in my sweet little home with my teacher, friend, roommate sleeping quiet and naked next to her haunted secretary desk.