A Tidy Hermit
Slack and unenthused have been my days, a role of insipid preoccupation, determined to play out the slums of my lazily maze away from the writer and his coax.
A tidy hermit is what this month makes me, undermined by its caretaker spell so that no exponential thought can grow adventurously in my underplayed days, days which have seen me being far-removed from any go-forward in the unflattering canter of these last few nights.
My mood is not even with me now, but this spate of recent news challenges me to speak, if even so dismissed by this demised, descript account.
The Distraction That Disillusion Brings
Ah, the distraction that disillusion brings, so well versed, yet, felling me silent, me, this home dweller still seeking solace in not doing, but opening my appreciative eyes to this world surrounding.
My life is simple at the moment, be it for a roof over my head, food on the table each night and no stress whatsoever, yet, it is still far from being happy or feeling whole, condiments that will undoubtedly come when one chooses to explore, but for which my pieces have yet to fall.
One great piece in the oracle of my harbored life is what the lover would choose when my joie de vivre stands alongside our fortune field when time shows its hand, and it shouldn’t be long, now that my answer comes.
The Wild Thought
Alone some nights ago and on the net, when talking to the almond and his churlish pet, there came a thought, a wild old one, of me and her, way down our run.
My joie de vivre it was her name, beloved lair in mind she keeps, and anxious as was when news he bared, she made me more, with proud despair.
“What to do, what to do,” cried me in vain, in luck to score a chance again, with her that old beloved who, was more than fluke, or bane, or shrew.
My answer came slow, albeit thickly fast, of word to my joie de vivre, at last, and he, the almond for which was sent, came scurried back with worded vent.
I cried a heart of long-felt rue, let go the past, and now anew, but what will hap, hap she return, of story told, and ending learned?
The Earliest Art Forms Of Love
What nursery-rhyme poetry sits on my rim of my imagination, made funny for being so quirkily sappy? But then we are talking about my one true love, nay; my one truth.
Throw it onto the gamut of emotional spurs that the lover often portrays, along with the rest of his expressions that have since from him revolved, like his earliest art forms, when my joie de vivre wheedled out my charm and the writer wrote his loving balm, of songs inscribed and poetry scribbled, and dotes in literature dabbled and dibbled.
This latest verse fits my repertoire of all the lover’s done by far, and even so, it fits entire, of all my artistry inspire.
The Art Of Writing Sonnets
There is an art to everything when one performs, a game to play, as in courting women. And it has always been hard to restore an old leisure such as writing sonnets because therein, pressure always looms.
Nevertheless, an expression cannot be forced but just allowed to guide you, and that’s what the writer harmoniously allows every night.
One day my sonnets may return to their old pinnacle, but love needs an incentive, naturally, and so, thank my old hang-ups for these modern-day drives that past unresolved issues chain me on.
The Almond Visits My Joie De Vivre
Maybe this thin corridor that the almond brings is my chance opportunity.
He talked to my joie de vivre when working and sent my hopes as messenger. I was tired of making excuses, tired of keeping my pleas tunnelled deep down, and so it was time to face my most moral fears, to confront my virtues and crowd of tears.
Every time he went up to visit her in her store, to yak about turning the stereo system down, they would always share a word or two, but never about me. Maybe she wanted to but was just too scared to ask, like me when not wanting to sound too obvious talking to Zola last.
Feelings Linger Four Years On
Our chemistry has, in my mind, never paled. However, it has been four years, and things have changed.
Jewell may still have a boyfriend and be in love with him, but one chance is all is needed to put my mind at ease.
I just want to let go and move on, to tie up those loose ends and take away that love-ended burden.
Few people get to have a second chance, and thank me that it has come along, yet, with so much to say and do in all these years without the lover shared, it will be hard, as I forgot how to say it.
Joie De Vivre Gives Me Her Email
I used to be able to say what I felt then write what was said, but now it is the other way around.
Fortunately, things are coming back under control.
My joie de vivre is still a much-endeared memory, but after the almond passed on word, she gave him her email address as hoped she would. He called me Friday morning when still asleep and spooked me with the rousing news.
“What did she say,” I wanted to know, elated in modesty as he passed on her surprise in smiles.
“She said she thought it would be good to talk to you again,” he mentioned, going on to recite her email address.
Actually, it belonged to her brother, as does the household computer, which means she probably doesn’t have access to “Messenger” but maybe it is for the best.
An email is nerve-racking enough, but still, keeps me calm and drawn-out in days, a safe distance for morality to play its side.
Diary Of A Mad Chaos is a daily diary written from March 1996 until today, of which individual books and book series have been created, namely “The Lost Years” an exploration of young, entwined love, the “Wubao In China (猎艳奇缘)” book series which provides an extensive comparative analysis of the cultural differences between Eastern and Western societies, and the book titled “Foreigner (华人)” an exploration of race relations in Australia.
