There's a little black dot on the Sun today... it's the same old thing as yesterday... except for the writers featured on the show. Nothing yesterday about them, until tomorrow, but who puts a timer on art, anyway? In episode 30 on Prose. Radio, the words roll smoothly with the likes of Mariah, area_man, LARGE, The Villaires, and the man of area once more, who closes the show with the complexity of family.

Here's the link to the show.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYvrATECLOQ

And here are the pieces featured.

ttps://www.theprose.com/post/814482/a-violence-unfamiliar-to-most https://www.theprose.com/post/814486/balancing-the-bar https://www.theprose.com/post/814424

https://www.theprose.com/post/814475/first-words-of-day-in-the-morning-dew https://www.theprose.com/post/814476/infinite-jest

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

When sentiment is left to chance, thoughts of Sade opens episode 29 on the show, into a perfect hand of five pieces from five writers on the site, up to ride on the airwaves from here, their words into you.

Here's the link to Prose. Radio:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZP9zXwUkek

And here are the pieces featured:

https://www.theprose.com/post/538382/fall-ritual https://www.theprose.com/post/814220/for-clarencet https://www.theprose.com/post/813959/errant-thoughts

https://www.theprose.com/post/814081/reclaiming-me https://www.theprose.com/post/814211/3-kinds-of-followers

And, as always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

The sky is raining. Or so it seems. You see the sky opened up in my living room. I am in a puddle of water wondering how to plug up the clouds so they don't come in here again.

Then I see that the rain are my tears and I am just wishing for it to be anything other than me- to hide the truth of my sadness that is right in front of me- falling like rain on my window pane. The sad thing is today was beautiful. Sunny without a cloud in the sky.

I hate being sad on days like today. The wind felt good against my cheek and I was reminded that I am still here. The road was warm on my bare feet and I wonder why I have bouts of sadness on days like today when most of my days are so good.

I then wonder what it means to have sorrow stick to your ribs like cement so every step feels like you are anchoring yourself more and more to the earth. My shoulders droop and my body aches. I am sick. I have been sick. And it is hard to tell what is wrong with me.

But my body is begging me to find an answer. So when I am bedridden and I look out at that beautiful sky I am reminded that I am so very here. Inside with aching ribs with the air in my room smelling like sickness. I do not know how else to describe it other than that.

And then I wonder if on days like today why it is so much easier to write when sorrow is my companion? It makes me sadder still, and even more than that it terrifies me.

I do not want to thirst for dark things so my pen can flow like water in a stream. I wish I was just the current itself. A constant thrum of creativity- but this would make me some god. I am no god. I am struggling living life as a human as it is.

I kiss my pillow with my eyelids, I turn over look at my ceiling with the glow in the dark stars- I will be 30 in about a week- and still love the childish wonder in certain things. Glow in the dark stars is one of them. So I will take this as my trophy tonight as I try to sleep.

Sorrow left an impression but did not drown me.

Because I will open my eyes tomorrow and do the very thing it would never expect:

I will try. One foot in front of the other. I will move forward.

Civilization and morals

are ideations

from erudite men

disinterested in art

with paradoxical tools

for societal control

and the demoralization

of the gods.

Age is merely a number

of a self-inflicted construct

designed to remind us

how fragile our existence is.

We think of time as transient

perceiving it in temporal duration

instead of realizing time as infinite

as are the vibrations

of our being.

Death awaits

For everyone

Shadows in

The midnight sun

Whispered

Effervescent joy

Coalesced

Wanton ploy

Packaging

Sexualized

Specifically

Conceptualized

Lost your soul

With your head

No escaping

The House of the Dead

Walking into the forest,

my goal is to embrace isolation

Disgusted by the rat-race

I’m leaving society’s congregation

Because of its intrusiveness

it’s difficult to remain private

I leave the city with no remorse

as Nature has become my surrogate

Deeper into the forest I push

continuing my search for seclusion

Getting away from society

with its unwanted obtrusion

Far from the filthy city

I live as a happy recluse

Along with disdain for people

I need no other excuse

Traveling further into the woods

yearning to live where it’s remote

People and society are the poison

While Mother Nature is the antidote

They always

seek reassurance

in the heavens

from beings

of chaos

& discontent

never

realizing that

the gods

whom

they sought

solace from

are completely

insane

Every step on this beach of volcanic sand,

Watching the crystal waves as they depart,

I watch as my mind has flashes of the past,

Smaller footsteps walking across the crisp soil and green grass,

I can still feel the summer breeze on my back,

The sound of sea foam gushes into my ears,

As I hold back my tears of sorrow

The rocks sit between the land and sea,

I feel like those rocks when it comes to my family,

One side always fighting, the other wanting peace,

If only our troubles could be carried away,

Like the salt sea on this light breeze,

It wasn't always this way but things changed,

Divorce, death, and deception ruined us,

So, I ran off

Now, I stand on this endless beach with white cliffs,

Thinking about the what if's,

Trying to find answers in the bluest part of the waves

I'm waiting for the return of yesterday.

Queries, answers, obligatory renunciations of a false faith endured by the few who question the reality and veracity of the existence of sanity. There are those who proclaim the answer to the question of madness. An incremental deterioration of the mind from the constant stress of fear and anxiety. Creating a state of perpetual mental uncertainty and seeking to withdraw from societal norms.

Madness is not a symptom, it’s a destination.