Don’t call me. I’ll call you.

Routine.

Run of the Mill.

Don’t call me.

I’ll call you.

Don’t ring me.

I’ll ring you.

Routine.

Cut-and-dried.

Wait five minutes.

Wait thirty minutes.

Wait one hour.

Conflict resolution is similar to the New Year’s ones we endeavor to make with the whispering knowing in the back of our ear knowingly chuckling and saying, “I give it three weeks.”

Will power is powerful when there is a will and a way. Otherwise it is just another “plan.” An un-executed plan.

Inevitably, someone or something will come along that is

“better.”

The want, the need, fades in time. Fades in importance.

Will power lost.

The more things change. The more they may stay the same.

Change never really occurs. Situations resolve on the one hand only to leave the other hand scratching the head with doubtless wonder.

Again.

The conversation, at first, may look different, sound different, be different. Some war of words can go on for decades, with multiple wars waged along the way. Remaining unresolved.

Cut-and-dried unresolved. Engagements occur. Engagements broken. Non-graded-run-of-the-mine kind that never improve or get worse. A bruise on the scab on the bleeding heart. Acceptable, yet only to the ones who settle. For less.

We collectively forgot what it was to seek excellence. In a moment in time, too much acceptance became the “norm.” Drama took over in its place. Forced acceptance was in order. To go along meant not that one agreed, but that if one disagreed, all hell would break loose. The shift to be was that we are only allowed to be each other—no differences, no beautiful one-ness.

Routine. Is security. Just as night sees its way to day, we see a familiarity in the routine of the minutes ticking the clock along in a clock-wise direction. Forward. Not Backward. Counter-clockwise is for the doubters, the ones who cannot get it done.

There are many moments in time we wish, we WISH we could turn back the hands of time. To lesser hurt. Lesser harm. Happier moments. Wondrous joy. We may also wish for simpler times, when distractions did not rule the run-of-the-mill-minefield of what is today. The minefield of “who done it” this time.

Every time we turn around we face the differences. We pretend acceptance. We feign understanding. Only to be left feeling hopeless and empty. We should practice what we preach about what is good. About not one’s existence being more important than another.

Life is not a game.

Sadness and happiness are not cut and dried. Ignorance exists not because a person is stupid or dumb. But because the ignorant person affirms, the wise person doubts and reflects. (Ar)

Nuance positions between the black and the white.

The wise man does not say everything he thinks, he thinks about everything he says.(Ar) 🤔

Reflection is a two way mirror into our soul. In our most difficult times our true self comes to light. If we are honest with what is staring back at us, we get a window into the soul of our intentions, motivations, reflections, assertions etcetera, etcetera. We think if we double cross our enemy, we win. We think if we cross authority, it always wins.

Why would we want to double-cross another? Being right is not all it is cracked up to be. Sometimes in this cut-and-dried world, it is better to be wrong. Wrong about something we knew to be fact is akin to abuse and recklessness of what it is. What it was.

New actors may be brought into the picture, unknowingly, in order to throw the doubt around like a rag doll.

Imagine.

A giant rag doll walks into a party. A party wherein you are frolicking and reveling. In walks the rag doll, all floppy and inherently staggering. Looking cute and inviting on the outside. Un-intimidating and unassuming. Beneath the fabric and stitches lies a cunning and wicked doll. Destined to rip you to shreds.

To shreds.

With all the cuteness of a,

Doll.

A doll of fortune.

A doll of misfortune.

A doll.

To many in the world of cute. A doll is a label of fortunateness. “She is a doll.” “He is a doll.” Beneath the rag doll-like exterior exists a rip- your-heart-into-shreds inhumane pieces of shredded cloth sewn into what is supposed to be a human-like being.

Ironic, really.

The cute doll’s insides have been shredded, too. When she walked into the folicking party of your so called future. You melted in her hands, like a, well, a rag doll. She has experience with this—with you melting into her hands.

Why?

How?

The rag doll has been there, here, in this place, numerous times. The shredding of her insides masked the hurt along the way. Made the ability to cope as beautiful as her yarn-like hair and painted on face of expressionless expression. She does not nor has ever felt/feel, “whole.” Full.

She came to this party fairly numb already. Numb to the past, numb to the future. Numb to the ways and means that have confronted her for years. Why else did she stagger into a loud and boisterous gathering of friends with no names? No known faces of recognition.

Why? She had to desperately block out the memories. The hope-familiarity with which she walked into the party with, was met with the expectations she expected.

Same old. Same old. (lk)

It did not so much matter where she was, how far away, or face to face. The already shredded insides informed her of the next step. And she began to stumble and tumble right in front of everyone. Memories are funny like that.

They make us look all drunkly and stupid, when in effect, the reminders are the reminders of the hopeless moment of entrapment. In harsher cases, more seriously desperate, the memories up the ante and are ascribed to be,

flashbacks.

Flashbacks of a time gone bad, that may have started out as a time gone good. The nuance lies somewhere in the middle of the wry smile and the out-right scream.

Scary. This doll of mass destruction who looks like the girl next door.