I don't know if luridity is even a word- my spell check just lit it up- but if it isn't, then timidity shouldn't be a word either. Or humidity or any ity word, for that matter. If a lurid story contains no luridity than a humid day cannot be described using the term humidity.
Terminal. Ha. End? No. A junction? Maybe. I never visited a bus terminal where all the buses gathered to die. Could say, terminal describes a form of termination, though the vast number of terminals are not the last move in the game of life, but a union coupled with another destination. Every destination has its own terminal yet the tracks never end there. They neither ascend into the clouds nor descend into the ground. They simply continue on to another terminal.
Words are alive. They are spoken and embedded in our brains. Context rules the roost and delivery can kill the rooster. I know this to be a fact. A barb can do more damage than a spear. I must say here that writing short sentences feels abrupt. The dog wagged its tail. Wow. Who cares if we don't know how fast, how slowly, for what reason............. maybe I'm more comfortable in drone mode. Go figure.
This post is an exercise in avoidance. I've taken on too much lately and am having a literary migraine. Sometimes abstract nonsense is cathartic, hmmm.... sometimes abstract is sense.
Hope springs eternal? What the heck is this? If hope springs at all, it has proven itself to have sprung, or started. Last time I checked, eternity goes both ways. Speaking of such, if eternity is truly so, then why do so many people ask the question "where do we come from?" Isn't it obvious that eternity, being forever, must run into its own ass? We must be saddled up somewhere on an endless loop. Maybe God is a cowboy, and we are riding his lasso. Is this abstract enough?
Sometimes I scare myself with my thoughts. Often they are so peculiar as to prevent me from ever posting on a blog or even scribbling on a napkin. If ALS were a brain disease I might have slipped a paragraph or two upon these pages worthy of my dementia. As it is, I gather my strangenesses, cram them into my mouth and banish them to stomach acid. I won't discount the possibility that a burp escapes my mouth and finds itself in print. I can never say never.
If you are still reading, I have, again, drawn you across the hot coals and into my diatribe of drivel. I always have fun when this happens, and since fun is usually screened by my reality, I really, really enjoy a smirk and a giggle, even if my amusement at the thought of a hook in your mouth is nothing more than a pipe dream. Thank you
