One: The first mother eventually puts a shotgun in her mouth and ends her suffering.
Two: The second mother parties with her white trash man so she can get him all good and liquored up, before goading him with her barbed words into smashing her own skull into an elevator door in a planned terminal event.
Three: The third mother tortures herself as long as possible in the slow, agonizing, disfiguring and consuming death of a cancer patient who prefers the grip of inevitable suffering and isolation, rather than the touch and embrace of love and hope.
And are we not upside down when one day of the year replaces the other three-hundred and sixty four. God forbid a three-hundred and sixty five day approach to the appreciation of anything or everything. So much and so little attention paid at the same time to the currency of supposed caring. Celebrate, celebrate, buy, buy, buy, a gift for you, for all to see; a gift from me, for you to see, like all of the other gifts of the fucking mindless sea. No gift of thought nor gift of gab; no gift of time nor gift of true touch, but a gift of easy purchase, given by all consumers in mass, the crowd of capitalist, to those they love, to proclaim such love in numbers strong and mundane; how the cup must runeth over with excitement and the expectation of response to such titillating effort and application of awareness. Per l’amore di qualcuno *, all of the heart and mind offered in an effort to display such reverence, respect, yearning, appreciation and awareness…..or truly, perhaps, something much more simply titled, apathy; a lack of awareness, a lack of care, a lack of thought; the lowest common denominator of the masses that will be sufficient in cloaking oneself in the masquerade of something other than a selfish, apathetic, imperceptible, emotionally devoid, scoundrel. Days of gifts, cards, balloons, roses and chocolate; candy, Christ, stockings, Santa and such; all for naught, in the heart desirous to be empty of distraction and filled with genuine display. A ruse is a ruse and only deceives a dullard or one who willingly embraces such distraction; always I wonder, the worst of which, over and over, my eyes behold. Contentment may be brought by such standards between dullard and dullard for equal is the measure, but poison and misery await to greet the soul that swims amongst such fools in confusion or insecurity. Disparity of such in spirit must equal such in effort and action, and while a breath may be held in false pretense and presumed security, it may not be held indefinitely without manifesting expiration.
A soul does not choose a day over a year or a moment over infinity, but a beast shall. And every beast will be lead by its own nose and its own hunger and its own laziness to feed amid the ranks of its brethren beasts. The fête of one day to express sentiments of love under the Feast of Saint Valentine or the celebration of the Christ child’s birth during one solitary rotation of the earth, only serve the charms of chaos, distraction and excuse, with isolated, rare exception. Inversely, like an eclipse that might ruin the focus of the day for our beasts, the soul perches to ponder, and thus it sees three-hundred and sixty four days squandered without celebration of what is deemed most important in all of existence, and it cannot further escape that this sacrifice is yielded without acknowledgement of such loss and denial. And even so, insult is added most deliberately to injury of such awareness by the bastardized alternative, concocted with exuberant, commercial merriment and displayed in the many days of one. And all of this is sold and bought by all of the beasts as the more enlightened and superior approach to life as every soul weeps and withers. The beasts sing me, me, me, as they grab their gifts and candy, the grin of a Grinch flashing in delight, as they snatch and cheat another shopper out of the stock on the shelf. They wonder, astonished at such prices and products, why any soul would not partake in their antics and the antics of all those surrounding them in the communal frenzy, never noticing the emptiness of their bag and the hole that perpetually remains at its bottom. How could a soul not appreciate their gift?
*For the love of someone
To be Continued…