The Philosophy of Patience

Revisiting a terribly comfortable form of self-destruction. I’m an accidental humorist. An idle Tourist wandering the vast region where southern wit meets mediocre writing. I cannot find a landmark to use for direction. So I sit and daydream about Mother Nature or Father Science somehow ripping into the Earth, tearing apart the foundations of our physical lives. But then time passes, without incident. Time grows stagnate, but offers distance from old pain. Time stretches into a decade-sized crater. Still no mushroom cloud. Still no inspiration. Still I sit, revisiting a comfort that has sharp teeth. Dusting off old mistakes and replacing their batteries. This is a philosophy of patience. It’s a terribly tragic stasis. I am writing my masterpiece, in Morse Code, using the twiddling of my two sore thumbs.