A very small portion of a double rainbow. 

Something about the golden glow from inside and behind the blinds instructed me to view the outside, this is what there was to find.

Gotta live more life and have some happy so that I may write some smiles into existence prior to my demise. : )
My Options: The Frozen Cupcakes

I opted to eat a regular ol’ yellow cupcake con vanilla frosting.  One for many a day within a row.

I am faced with the consequences. 

Was the sickness caused by the sugar and gluten or was the craving caused by the sickness?

My mind is swirling of sorts.

I cannot make sense of such choices when I know now that I have sensitivities which wreak havoc when ignored.

Pretension or option?

Processed or organic?

Probably the latter because of the sensitive nature of my person.

Could I wish to be different on some days I would make that wish… knowing there are two more wishes so I could safely wish myself back. 

Wish for wellness?

Perhaps an option.

Only with rules.

The ascetic choices are hard but the softness is suffocating.

Someday I hope to be healthy if only in spirit.

Someday I hope to fully embrace my sensitivity without an ounce of fucking shame.

No, I don’t want your smells and your tonics and potions.

I don’t desire temptation in the form of taking the gray from my hair or the red from my face.

I want peace, fully.  I want understanding funnily.  I want love and a sense of family that I can try to create all day yet my age makes me in a line to a throne I do not own.

I just want a gluten free cupcake sweetened with apples and honey… but in a year.  I have to wait to consume tiny cakes again.

Why Do I Insist Upon Writing By Hand?

Because we grew that way?

Because the thumb holds the implement against the index finger and protruding bump upon the middle finger where a nail pierced through.  The crucifixion of my hand created a welt within my cranium that the writing strokes ease.

Because I love to digitally binge transcribe?

Because I have tiny tablets surrounding my person… and pens wherever I go.

Because it is easy to do at present and when it is painful at all it will be more painful than most things.

Because I can write almost as fast as I can type?

Because I write… and had I no hands I would try to create words with my feet?

I don’t have a “bucket list…” because well, I will not kick a bucket prior to death and the list would fill up a fucking exploitative Aquarium tank. (Because the literal part of me when hearing “bucket list” envisions a list within a bucket?) Yeah… that’s how lengthy that list would be! A list an orca could do a ribbon dance with!
Welp, I did it, I beat my all time high score on Dr. Mario! I know this day shall be superb when it starts as such!

A couple of season appropriate photographs.

And the sky was too pretty to pass up such a photoing opportunity.

And the sky was too pretty to pass up such a photoing opportunity.

With all of their difference were they similar within that way?
A grandmother I knew is another place now.

Her kind of care left the feeling,
fictive kinship can mean: healing.

The connections which we share with people are important.

My Silence

Only recently have I truly realized how much I talk only within my own head at times.

My silence is damningly loud!

Tomorrow I will water myself with grief.
So,me.times

The days I really delve into the writing aren’t right.  I feel wrong and rightfully whole and as though I am manifesting a hole onto an area (now a visible orb).  I feel destroyed and weak and deliberate upon deleting my person.

Mourning and being physically lost are an interesting coupling. Mourning has a meandering inherent and being geographically unguided always feels grandly overwhelming. Yesterday she was both and she weathered the storm with: some water, an apple and granola. She found her destination of sorts.
The Final Fictive Elder- A Sweet Ending

Until the berries ripen more the final ripest fell from the bush.  She landed within the tall grass and soon into the warm hand of a young woman.  She was a lovely fruit half ripened with systemic hatred and the other with sun.  She would smile and rise above and her past was present in her lack of ability to like a hug.  When she left, her departure was felt within the tumbleweeds and called them home to mourn her loss and to celebrate the great gathering.  The creator has some good energy returned.  I will forever miss the elder huckleberry who kindly reminded me of things.