Myalgic Encephalomyelitis Soup.

Do you love life? Do I? Isn’t it wonderful to love life, the trees, sunsets, ikle children, kittens, achievements, one’s sensitivities to the multifarious aspects of the universe under the suns daily traverse? And isn’t it wonderful to share one’s appreciation of them all with others? No. When I was about four playing shop with the little girl across the street she tried to convince me a selection of stones were in imaginative fact potatoes. I wouldn’t have it; they were stones. Any fool could see that, and no amount of paying for them and getting change with pinched fingers into open palms would convince me otherwise. I am thus a wholly unimaginative insensitive beast. What right have I to object to other people helpfully pointing out all the beauty and miracles of daily life I’m so obviously missing? Unless of course it’s a classic Ducati 916. Oh and I’ve just noticed a smear of last night’s gravy has given the back of my left hand a rather convincing tan. Anyway. So a tree is a tree for me, the sky is the sky for I and, well I looked up ‘me’ in a thesaurus for another personal pronoun and got myalgic encephalomyelitis, so that’s the end of that witty rhyming scheme. I guess I’m suspicious of percolating what surrounds me through the coffee pot of my persona if that makes any sense at all. I don’t want my I to make chirpy uplifting comments about how I feel about stuff. It’s just one big soup of being and I’m just a pea chasing a crouton. That’s it, that’s my mantra of forty years, “Everything is.” You can never use less than enough adjectives.