Sleeping with the fear of God is far from a cozy cuddle. Anyone who’s been thrown untimely into a conversation about meeting the ol’ Maker might understand my drift. Life-threatening anything tunes your obtrusive condition toward salacious outbursts. A once soft-boiled nature can become hard-boiled scouring. Tremendously torn by whatever constitutes our fractal frenzy, we’ve reset as a silhouette of our sensible self. Letting ourselves buckle down with the obscured realities of our disfiguring scuffles is eviscerating exertion. Yet, forthright emotions are as fundamental as the information which got them all riled up. I believe that a cussing and crying regime is a craze worthy of perfecting, not degrading. Life doesn’t deliver roses merely because you know they’re available to order. Living doesn’t coast along precisely as you think you’ve aligned all your stars. And the abstract exposé of loving often mingles with a few shocks to our system.
It seems that “they” is a very special person. I’ve been told ‘they’ are meant to help me instead. I hear this more than forty times during the course of four hours and tallying onward during a recent series of customer service health calls. “Service” in and of itself as customer experience is known for being a chore as derailing as noticing the flowers between the weeds. Every agent I speak with is easily passing the buck to another. Each dial of a new phone number argues a delusory ring of unmatched results. My intelligence rounds a volatile bend. My path emits a wrathful stench. I’m too close to leaking a swearing storm. Weeping has begun a waltz with all of my words, indistinguishable one to the other. I abruptly appreciate those beggars I’ve ever seen on frequent streets. Regarding food, water, clothing in front of one’s eyes. Although, you’re prohibited access. Suddenly, life and death have a very different meaning.
I imagine I won’t be alone to continue any portions of my sentimental breakdown today. My native USA’s 9/11 attacks remembrance are enough reason to publicize the filthy sailor meets blubbering basket case in me. Much like countless atrocities expunged daily from around our globe with sadly far less media attention, loss strangles our anguish. As a people, we’re enveloped with a ‘good grief’ syndrome that’s as wildly remote from the truth of goodness as a cannon is to pancake mix. Profanity melted against flagrant tears is simply a salve that personally scales me a spry vantage. Equally, the ushering of taking myself outside of myself to view how mucked the rest of the planet tremors usually subsides a hefty bounty of malfunction trending me a wee slippery abrasion. Our erosions may be an emotive release. But, giving over completely to our barbaric side isn’t gonna keep us in optimal stride.
Bring on the befallen burnout! I was raised with a bit of a blasphemy oath. Your tongue could let loose some seriously shabby language as reconciliation compared to the prolonged effects of biting back any gang of foul play. While this was never license to disrespect your elders, the post lady, dry cleaner, drivers, educators, nor friends purely owing to the fact you have particular permission within the confines of your family, it was a waking of the soul to learn a way to aid the shaking off of all flocks of fray. Towing a trail of sniveling normally hastened the inverse. Jostling with my brain, body, and heart always leaves defective callouses. Whereas I honor the foot-oriented tribes, athletes, or hippies who insist on the benefits of any hardened parts of themselves, I prefer a smoother lifetime. Besting our drudgery by pulverizing it with egregious passionate liberation is the lightning to our thunder.
Every ounce of outrage is an unrestricted occasion to reach all of your feelings. A little cursing coupled with showering waterworks will seldom disappoint the majority I’ve encountered. However, of careful note, I’m not suggesting you go poop out of your mouth all over someone else’s fine day. Neither, would shedding your wailing to random anyone typically provide you the rescue you’re seeking. The classic event we’re aiming for is the private unloading of obscenities and/or moist lamentation mantra moment. The sooner I hurl an appetizer of vulgarities and stuff my dish full of sorrowful moaning, I’m able to return to calm. It’s as if the cosmos divined long ago that any gnarly revolt is just the jolt our organisms are awaiting. The next instance that life or some character sets up an abuse camp in front of your establishment your intimate response could be the freeing purification needed.
May the stirrings of your spitfire center enact the most beautiful charity.