Dysphemism

I haven't blogged in a while. David and Sarah seem to be lounging off somewhere in the wintry part of my left brain. Even Lakeisha has been waylaid by my incessant need to put her story off (even when my fingers are itching to type her dialogues night after night).

It's not about not having time. I believe I have my own time machine to brag about. I can turn mornings into evenings and vice versa. In fact, it's not about time. It's subtle persuasion. I haven't listened to myself lately. Or rightly put, I am my own worst listener.

But when it's not me talking, they can rattle on and over, and I'd digest every syllable.

Nonetheless, it's funny how I can easily rewind a moment of utter nonsense discussion and just as effortlessly forget a critical request.

So what fails me? Or maybe, the monstrous unwanted question is, who?

Or there's no need to ask such a pedantic question. The only thing that's given is Me.

Yet again, I desperately want to rule out my last sentence. Self-abusive emotions have driven me to a point of not differentiating sympathy from empathy, listening from paying attention, thinking from focusing, planning from prioritizing.

And the answer to my failing question leads me back to long ago.

A friend hit it right in the node. In fact, she commented at it for all the blogger readers to see putting butter when I should be getting axle grease.

A bit optimistic for her, I should say. She just gave me my prognosis. It was so sound a proof that I can't find any error. In fact, I have an overdose of optimism myself sedating me to overlook what's staring right in my face. A high dosage of resiliency also obliterated the way people would have regard me.

If that's an edge, it's not working. But currently, it's my fallback.

Just the same that it's my rage. My fallacy. My despair.