I encountered a young lady a while ago, young lady I can reasonably conclude is somewhere in her early twenties.
Obviously intelligent, incredibly well spoken, amazingly insightful …
and, yes now that I think further of it,
most assuredly in the outlying regions of the sinkhole, being drawn into the central realm only to be sucked into the vortex at thirty a little too quickly for her own comfort.
From all outward appearances and behaviors, she takes herself way too seriously. It approaches reverence.
That supposition would make for a safe bet.
The operative phrase necessary to fully contemplate the depth of those gifts graciously given to her – to qualify if not able to quantify them – would be “in her early twenties”.
In saying that, I don’t mean to denigrate nor to mock her or anyone suffering that rambunctious rite of passage.
The human brain is just not capable of grasping certain concepts or process sundry precepts until the age of twenty-five. The brain is just not fully developed until then, and at one point or another during that growth period it is unavoidable that one will eventually step in a pile of dog shit.
Far be it from me to insinuate that it was anything less than a common occurrence within my experiences,
and I pity the fool who in their pomposity either forgets or denies it within theirs.
And I pray for the child who can’t accept that inevitability and their concurrent fallibility.
Who am I to judge if they’re still scraping the shit off their boots?
Everybody steps in it once in a while.
I can’t, however, recall ever having seen a dog step in its own shit while people seem to do exactly that all the time.
J. K. R. Nash IV
It is, in fact, psychologically possible – in a philosophical sense – for one to metaphorically rip themselves a new asshole.
The more enlightened of us believe it to be periodically advisable, profoundly spiritual and orgasmically therapeutic.
J. K. R. Nash IV
One of the most difficult things I ever had to do in life was acknowledge to our seven-year-old son that Santa Claus was a lie. He was inconsolable, and I wasn’t far behind.
Don’t recall which of us went through more tissues.
And with each passing year, another fairy tale shot to shit.
Seems though that when you try to express life’s disappointments, mind-fucks and wake-up calls in adult terms, the heart of those thoughts and even some of the words come from the innocence we all lost along the way.
A beautiful post.
A nice reminder to keep things simple.
It always starts with chicken. When I think what should I write about today, the first thought that pops in my head is chicken. Then sheep, then pigs and then bears. Then I think, OK, what should I really write about?
Yesterday when I asked myself what I should write about I didn’t think of chickens or sheep or pigs or bears. But as I was writing I did find my mind wandering to chickens and sheep and pigs and bears. It just happened.
Perhaps life is best understood through the fables and fairy tales filled with animals. Perhaps it’s my inherent naiveté that drives me to the lessons of childhood stories. Chicken Little, The Three Little Pigs, Baa Baa Black Sheep and so on.
These stories keep life simple, strip away the noise, get to the heart of the matter. But as we grow older chickens change from lessons…
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Just got done reading some posts from youngandtwenty.
Have definitively decided on my favorite line out of all my favorite songs:
“Wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then.”
from “Against the Wind”
We had the Primary Election here in California yesterday (Tuesday).
Guess I’m just allowing myself the cursed luxury of some extra cynicism before I call it a day.