All day everyday. Mind junk. The relevance of which I no longer even wish to fathom. Thought in, thought out and I ought maybe buy a statue. A Buddha, sitting in an uncomfortable position and I’ll delegate my mind junk to it, to its concrete brain and closed contoured eyes and see if its expression contorts as the meaning of my thoughts pass like urine through a conduit.
I sigh! A tired and lonely rebellious sigh. A sigh of resignation, I didn’t tempt him to adultery and still, I miss him, those thoughts of early morning murmurings as I press my body into his and we stir together before even the dawn of humankind.
And it’s only junk. Mind junk, passing through a mind in stone, over an expressionless face. No laughter line. No joke. No enlightened countenance from the waste products of its mind.
This too. This too. This too shall pass. The concrete shall be weathered and the junk will crumble, like an ancient Atlantean colloseum and then that too, as is mind junk, shall wear out in the irrelevance of time. And the hollow contour of you and I, will only shine in the light of an exploded sun.
My thoughts of you are mind junk. I clasp the Buddha’s stone head and say, I hope you have more success than I, in tempting temptation.