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A dash of pink

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And so they say that pink is not okay and you wander and wonder of the plight of those who sway and say, "What's pink got to say?" These times are new. Some say hard. But really? Not much if you start. Keep focus. Pry deep. And all that cream above will reveal what is beneath.

You sit down and wait to eat. Served a plate of what is neat. The fork you use picks and screens and finally, imparts a large chosen piece for grinds. You chew hard. You chew and chew but utterly disappointed by what sinews. Stand up straight. Be affirmed. Often times the job curtails your every strength to move, to twitch or even slide. What happened to the cores and great I-ams and philosophies that guided and guilded of old? Gone. Poofed. One puff away. As if to say it never, ever existed in any way. In some way, pink defines. I clearly think it is hard to sign. You have to look real hard to truly differentiate the heart or it is rather stark. I used to think I know myself. Plain as a biscuit, cracker and all. With a crunch, you see me all. Time trundles. The tides that trolls what lies so deep within my soul. I do not yet know what pink means until I seek and question if it was foretold. All that gripes is subscribed. Rentals always don't get sold. You cannot hold onto what is not. Oh, such knots! I wish I could untie them all and be free from Pity's pitfalls. But human, that I am, how then can cancer be its call? Alas, I lie here be. Still and yet beaten, sane out at sea. Till the tides come to me, I am simple as can be. The job has a hold on me.

Evening calls. The night is through. I do not succumb to nor am I forlorn. I do know that I am all alone as darkness envelopes us all. I came here, not sure what, I should uncover. Perhaps the redness found its way, through the white strays of the day. Lying still I call out. Hopeful. I have little to doubt.

For sure it hurts to know that others impale you till you lose the glow. It is hard to rise above and take cover for all that shine. When one gleams of greatness, there is a price in repayment. All good things do come to an end. So we search on. True and through. Nothing ventured, nothing on the noose. Till the times comes and we come close to know pink is pink and all will show. Maybe pink is just a show to say I-don't know.

Alas the time has come to grate a tired soul. The toils and demands of a given day do so takes that smile away. Indeed to live is a choice. But who is to agree on this sedated call? I know not what agreement brings nor conceding to such terms seals. I was summoned. That's more to it. A wake-up call to mission bells. If being in the pink is what holds, then the term cannot be one that people resent. Much thought to give to words and all. I cannot say I do not recall. Culture prompts and so do we, in answer plead, "All guilty!" No one knows for sure what IS, till Time calms us all in order- call.

The deal is long and hard. My life. My all. Everything so intricately intertwined in this ball of mess. We used to call it Noble. Or Ashes? We grit and plough. This muddy profession. Daily we grind and grind in the slime. It is a business few know because of its past shine. Some have tried. Many have fallen out. I hang onto the noose with rope burns. I wish to say I am different but alas, one's true-worth balances thinly on this slate of melting ice that separates me from underneathe. Soon, the heat of things will send me down. I do not buy what it takes to stay above anymore. Too MANY shit-falls. Thank God not immoral you say? Not yet. Now the call to stop taking pictures. In the guise of things, slowly it eats me away. I don't buy this sweeping fad across this stupid world. I turn blue upon hearing "mindfulness". Total crap. I lose sleep snd peace over these. How far do I go to this ignorance of what bites? I will not forgo what is good. St De La Salle knows the odds he was up against. He never waivered. I know why he left for Parmines in France. Burnt out. We all do feel and know when our candles are burnt at two ends. God knows I space out to avoid the trenches I dug. The previous workplace was Harlem. This is getting darker in guise. Before all else fades out, I had better retrace and retrieve. For sure I want good memories and not just memoirs after I am dead and gone. So when one gets singed pink by the mirage of an iron that hinges from within, what then?

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