I am the sea spray clinging to metal, making rust.
I am the diet soda full of flavor and fun and falsely sweet.
I am the puncture, slowly making tires flat.
I am the discord in the piano keys stuck fast.
I am the cell changing others, creating sickness.
I am the cat soft and purry, with a vicious scratch.
I am the serpent in the garden, indolent and dangerous.
I am the rumor, soulless and spreading.
I am the ants inside the flower you brought in the house.
I am deception under a glossy veneer of goodness.
I am the worm inside the delicious fruit.
Am I? I am.
Over and over, I see this happening in my life. Yes, I do things which are considered good. Yet, in the end, the apple is thrown away and the music sucks. I thought I could be someone different. I have changed in some ways, but in the end, I am still myself and it doesn’t matter anymore. The saying about not being able to change spots is true. I can appear to grow and perhaps the edges are polished a bit more, yet, the end result is still warped. I exist for others, it is my place. There is little joy in the service, it is a duty. I won’t shirk it. I’m not the sort who does. I do, however, need to remember to avoid the relational parts in my service. The parts when I try to add interest to what I am. Every time I reach out and embrace others, I destroy them. The rock of self needs to remain steadfast and alone in the box. It is sort of funny. I actually LIKE people. I’m just bad for them.
Granted, these are my perceptions and not really important. Quirky posts are more fun to write and this sort of drivel belongs in my journal, but I don’t care anymore.