I meditate upon frustration. Being picked last. Limbo and limitations. The Machiavellian auspice of schoolyard pettiness and the movements of powerful creatures. Wuwei, the rhythms and rhymes of the cosmos, and the whims and whiles of the roll of the bones of chaos.
My mother and grandmother used to tell me I was a genius. Gifted. Two of my oldest and dearest friends have accused me of being too smart for my own good. Seeing too deep and too much. So it goes.
My mother used to tell me if my spine was straight, I'd be over seven feet tall, instead of only being nearly six and a half feet. She used to joke I should play basketball. As an adolescent, I hated her for that joke, but, over the years and lifetimes, I grew to hate most sports with a pink and purple passion.
I was an awkward youth; uncoordinated and unable to run very fast. Any physical strength I had, that I've ever had, has manifested in my lower body. I was always picked last. This might explain my apathy toward the athletic competitions others-males especially-masturbate over.
So, I had limitations? Both Clint Eastwood and Dave Mustaine have spoken the wisdom of knowing one's limitations. One, whilst singing hymnals and prophecy to a speed metal soundtrack. The other whilst finding happiness being a warm gun.
The severity of my learning disability would've gotten me thrown into an institution a generation before, if my grandmother was to be believed. As it stands, supposedly, I see things backward and otherwise catawampus, but, let's face it, views of reality are subjective. Reality, it is suggested, is a phantasm. Billy Corgan said once that the world is a vampire, but perhaps that's because his view of it sucked.
I was further limited by the fact I cannot see in the dark like a cat or an owl. I lack the wings to fly like a bird or a bat. Without gills, it is more than a little difficult to breathe underwater. I am unable to spin webs like a spider.
Amazingly enough, despite such horrific limitations, I've gotten by. Perhaps I'm just obstinate like that. Maybe that's just me; refusing to be broken beneath the blade. I have yet to encounter the force that can break me, so I tend to take umbrage when I perceive I am being treated like an invalid because of my trivial limitations.
Fuck you. I will not be mollycoddled. End of chat.
By my own admission; I catch myself feeling a bit upset. Taking umbrage. I spend the day hissing and growling about it. Upon the rising of the next sun, whilst the reason might still be there, I'll be moving beyond it. To do anything less would be to admit defeat, and, as I have said; I have yet to encounter the force that can break me.