I practice breathing given air. It doesn’t matter that I like To spike what’s real with worries where What’s unreal gets the loudest mike. Sometimes practicing goes slow Wondering if I’ll ever know How to breathe. I’d rather not. Mindlessly I breathe a lot.
I move my black mouse and click. I know I should be doing other things.
“Like what?” That silent voice inside me asks.
Well, like watching this orange sunset or bothering that white bird sitting for no good reason on the railing or contemplating the other worldly mysteries of this grand universe.
Knowing I have no clue, I hear. “Really, like what?”
So I let my inner squeaky wheel, my imaginary “friend”, guide me downward into the depths of another suspicious, weedy, mosquito-loving rabbit hole I have no business exploring. But what else, really, do I have to do?