Meadering

Life still is sluggish, dead slow train chugging, one of those cumbersome leviathan giants half sleepy and bearing ignominy of being the ancestors to the Sloth. ( No, PETA dont pelt me! That rhymed now, dinn it? PETA DONT PELT ME !)

So I get up and I switch on the radio to listen to Daughtry crooning, "am going home, the place where I belong", and I get this brainwave that I definitely need a break. To rejuvenate and renew things up. Fuel up. coz I suspect my life's become so much like the Narrator in Fight Club.

Hey listen I don’t wanna sound like this whiny bottomless pit of neediness, but yet, the listlessness does get to you. So coming back to our Narrator,
Am Jack's uninspired lazy pregnant cat on the porch swing idly swatting at a fly on a lazy sunday afternoon. That’s how lame I feel these days. (Man, I love the metaphor) A purpose. That’s what am searching for.
My SM reads “Searching for my own Xibalba” For the uninitiated to the ways of Darren Aranofsky ( acclaimed eccentric genius, gave us the brilliant Requiem for a Dream) Xibalba, according to the Mayan Legends it’s the underworld, the place where dead souls go to be reborn.
So I just might come back a new person, reborn and detoxified. Jubilant and full of life.
So long, then and thanks for all that fish ( never ever gimme fish, I hate that!) Wish me luck as I gaze for my own dying star, which will explode and give birth to a countless million points of light in the sky and help me get out this drudgery.

*Sighs* * Perks up. Needtcha pack, Am going home. Place where I always belonged*