Spasmodic gusts rise within. Simmering, raging, they foam and froth; spewing pangs of regret. An unfinished epiphany ensues, relinquished by another paroxysm. One more gastronomic disaster, the end of an epicurean sin!
Someone once described me
as an “animated book”.
Sucker for sychophancy,
it was a compliment, well-took.
Blogging’s a reluctant séance
I walked into — a stab to incite
my creative spurs back into
a world from where
they had taken voluntary retirement.
A vacuous space
where they indulged in nothingness
— my once-zealot urges
were Vladimir and Estragon,
waiting for Godot.
“Nothing to be done” read their logo.
Drenched in the meaningless of existentialism,
I ached for a catharsis.
In non-absurdist lingo,
I needed a space
to appease my now-out-of-order ego.
A Kafkaesque metamorphosis
trailed this reawakening,
now I verge on the obsessive compulsive…
That’s right I’m a knee-jerk skeptic.
Therein lies the irony of the paradox.
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