The salted water of tears and pasta…

Reaching into my eye sockets I grab handfuls of salty water, soft ball sized spheres of anguish and frustration. Filling balloons with tears and throwing them from rooftops makes no difference to the sharks swimming in the moat. How much this tears me apart, how much I feel despair and doom like the sky is collapsing and Chicken fucking Little never stood a chance in the first place.

But is that true? Is that how I feel at all times?

Absolutely not, and that makes the darkness even more confusing. Even more dark. Even more enticing. How the anguish numbs the fear, and the fear turns up the agony. How can this be the addiction cycle, how can this be the transactional model?

Take the salted water and boil some pasta in it, make supper, feed yourself, eat of the sadness we weep in ways that lift the spirit. 

Yes, pasta will lift the spirit, it is a known fact. But can I drop spaghetti from the rooftop and knock the fascists onto the knees? Is there a way to bring them down from their High Mules? Can they salute the Nazis while they pave the streets with lithium?

Ah no, ah yeah, ah sure I just don’t actually have an answer… and I will bet bad money on a good gamble that you don’t have an answer either. 

Can you reach in your eye sockets and grab the sadness by its balls? Spherical little wet things, shrivelled like prunes that just help a person shit. 

Help me shit this out of my mind will you? Push it out onto deaf ears and see if they are gluten intolerant. Can they handle the noodles? Don’t hang noodles on my ears is what they will tell you in Russian but if they say it in Russian you just won’t understand.

This can’t be real life, and it can’t be the science of it, but if it is, then we are only partially fucked. Only partially because it isn’t all of us, it's just some of us.