“No, that would never do. Not dark or ambiguous enough.”
“Your thoughts are poison, immoral and useless to the greater good.”
Hemingway drunkenly laughed and baltered,
“Write yourself to oblivion, you’ll find the meaning someday.”
Osho and Rumi sat in quiet philosophy, too patient to be ruffled.
I wrote in scribbles that carved into the dark wooden table, and wondered what sanity would be like, if I were able…
I’d suddenly had enough.
I flipped the table, spilled the hot tea all over me, and screamed,
“Fuck off! Leave me be!”
They stared, then laughed at me.
“Now you know, now you see.”