here a box, there a box, everywhere a box, box

Boxes are a great way to organize.

It's best to use sizes that you can mange and carry about without too much trouble. If your boxes are too big, they become unwieldy or too heavy to bear. They will be anchors instead of useful tools.

They are finite in size so only so much can fit in them. When you get to the top, you have to start putting stuff in new boxes. This forces you to focus on only what's contained within them.

You can label them, color code them, stack them, put them away for later.

I imagine boxes in my mind and I can be still.

blinded by the blindness of my yearnings

looking up and out and beyond, I am searching for the stars in the sky, the sparkling twinkling lights that will add something special to my daily existence

the otherness that will transform this mundane shell I inhabit into an exotic dancer with twirling veils and tinkling bells, the added mystery of wafting incense, thick and spicy

my vision so distracted that I nearly miss the gems at my feet

mellow yellow and a bucket full of glee

yellow isn't a color i find it easy to warm up to
it's sort of weak
or bananaish
like a childish pratfall
a bad practical joke
gone askew
unless you slap a bog 'ole grin on it
then you can't help
but smile
from ear to ear

Good, Bad, or Ugly: Everything's a Competition for the Most

“How are you?”

“Tired … “

[ Interrupting Cow ]

“Oh, you have no idea what tired is. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. My knee has been predicting snow off on and on while the dog has been barking at three in the morning at who knows what. The cat snores like a sailor and the neighbors can’t go in and out of their house without slamming the front door. My boss is a bear. I had to work a double shift so I’ve been up since nine yesterday morning … Why don’t you ever talk to me?”

There's a Boom Deep in My Heart That Has Nothing to Do with You

~ click image to make biggerer ~

We drank a rich, deep, moon wine under the dark sky. Our moods matched the hint of smoked oak in the spirit and the violent wind buffeting the glass enclosing the porch where we sat.  

“Thunder makes me feel alive.” I wasn’t really talking to her. I would have said the same thing and said it out loud even if I were alone.

“I hate thunder,” she said, breaking the spell I was under. “It scares me.”

And that’s the difference between us and why we never really connected.