That, Sweet That

Drunken women have proclaimed my genius, but never have I. My feeling is it’s better to go the other way. It’s been said before that happiness and health are in the fool’s hands, and I want it, give it to myself daily with harsh affirmations, “You fucking idiot! How could you be that fucking stupid?” And I know I’m that stupid because I don’t know how. Who poses the same self-asked question everyday and never has an answer or even considers the possibility of one? Only an idiot can tell, and I’m telling. It’s why the sniper can’t get a bead on the unlit cigarette. Idiocy dims the horrors like a low wattage bulb in a prisoner’s cell, the sphere of light cast too small to reach the walls. When the edges of the world are unseen, there is no confinement, set free by too dim a brilliance to see. Genius shines over bright the light of reason, illuminating the cage’s interior, and giving hideous detail to what was wrapped within the formerly merciful gloom. It’s better staring off, slack-jawed, into serene shadowy space. Rarely do the jailhouse walls come into view, and when they do I gladly deal with my moments of retard rage as I pound fists bloody, bellow in intellectual impotence at the immovable obstacles of life until it all blows over and what it was all about anyway is forgotten and that, sweet that, is a far-cry better definition for freedom than any I’ve heard come out of politics.

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