not really, no

thank you but i'm not especially interested in what you have to offer, through a clear but thin filmy veneer i watch you, life, and feel removed. i wake with full intention of sleeping anew and walk with every intention of sitting down, once again, upon an aged rock with a sweet view of your lake, the depth of which is satisfyingly unknown. i'd rather not know, thank you, i'd rather wait here twisted up tightly within the confines of my polka-dot imagination, imagining you, imagining us, effortlessly and endlessly hopeful. the footsteps before me are muddy, sloppy, chewy, unappetizing, but the pristine green of unexplored terra offers nothing, fails to impress, without your presence. i recognize my right to self-annihilation via psychological meltdown as just one more drop in this god-forsaken bucket. god whistles as she walks down the street, one hand in her coat pocket, the other grasping the handle of our holy mother bucket, sloshing the wet contents about, spilling a bit here and there, careless. she goes home to wash her feet in the bucket; splash her floors for a good mopping; douse wandering flames; scrub her radiant, oblivious face with all of us. to what end to what end to what end do we scramble do we stumble and run do we reach and strain on our knees and then sit back on our heels, shake our heads, and have a good cry? how unbecoming it is to become something less-than, other-than, to fragment yourself into shapes, great triangles of upright citizenship, rhombuses of righteousness, spheres of schedules and tasks and expectations, pyramids postulating over nothing, like walking, talking picasso-esque jumbles of flesh and ego and hardened calcium deposits, fervently claiming dust. how unbecoming to ride death's train toward the inevitable, nodding as the scenery reflects your Grand Progress, counting the cows as you pass, wondering when the dining car opens, yawning, scratching your belly, wishing for an extra pair of socks, making room for new passengers, winking over firm handshakes to those about to depart, nodding at signs that indicate your final approach. No, that's not for me, not really, no. i prefer the insane and gratifying style of the whirling dervish, spinning as a great storm with no track to run, no "one way," picking up and spitting out whatever crosses my path, neatly destructive, ruining one avenue while preserving another completely, frivolous, ignorant, open, skirt blown up, hair tangled as the thickest knot of pine trees, eyes closed, hands open, wandering aimlessly in pursuit of pure joy until i tumble, unexpectedly, over life's final cliff.