Light Breezes

Found poetry? I have a hard enough time finding poetry in the poetry I actually write.


Fifty Shades Trilogy: If you’re rich enough, it isn’t weird.


An explanation of systematic effects: “You feel the lead pipe over and over against your back, but when you turn around there is never a single person there to blame it on. Since there is no one person, you figure you’re alright… until your back is broken.”


It’s healthy thing not to rely too much on the opinions of others to frame your own opinion of yourself, but when you tune all of the world out completely, you’re very possibly a sociopath.


Knowing me as I do, I see flaws, even more flaws, and the many consequences of said flaws. There’s very little magic in the show when you work behind the scenes.


I am frequently woken up in the middle of the night by the longstanding grief of people I’ve never met. Yet I daresay most people who know me in real life don’t think of me as someone who cares too much, or even cares at all.


If you ever want proof of the fact you can mean nothing to someone who means the world to you, meet a famous author (musician, artist) in real life.


Charles Schulz died 17 years ago, but hardly a day goes by that some comic he wrote doesn’t come to my mind as perfect to describe some situation that comes up in life. Most recently, this one:

linus-sandcastle


When I was in my early twenties, I became fascinated to the point of near obsession with the idea of what it would be like to kiss this one young woman I knew. Finally, I asked her out on a date, and she said yes.

We played tennis, which she was learning at the time, then went to a bar for a few drinks. We actually kissed each other in her car, which was an old convertible: top down (the car’s, not hers), under the stars.

Was it everything I imagined? It was better.

Why do I remember it now? I have no idea.

Is there a point to this story? No.

But maybe I could turn it into found poetry:

When I was in my early twenties, I became fascinated to the point of near obsession with the idea of what it would be like to kiss this one young woman I knew. Finally, I asked her out on a date, and she said yes.

We played tennis, which she was learning at the time, then went to a bar for a few drinks. We actually kissed each other in her car, which was an old convertible: top down (the car’s, not hers), under the stars.

Was it everything I imagined? It was better.

Why do I remember it now? I have no idea.

Is there a point to this story? No.

I hope no famous authors I admire are reading this.

Author: Sibelius Russell

Sibelius Russell (a/k/a/ Owen "Beleaguered" Servant) lives a life of whimsical servitude -- whatever that means.

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