Parts and Parcels

 I'm allergic to nuts. What does that have to do with the picture or the title, or even bread as a whole? I don't know; well, I didn't know when I chose to use that simple sentence to lead in to this blog post but I hope I'll make some sense very soon.

It's been a ridiculous span of time since I posted anything, and that's not because I haven't been writing (on the contrary, I just finished producing a short play festival that I am really quite proud of.) I've been away because I lost focus of the reason I started this blog. I need this as a space to create and hash out literary conquests and dilemmas. My dilemma, that I am faced with now, is being a parcel. I'm allergic to nuts.

Gone from being a cog in the machine

a part, now I sit apart

fallen like a nickel

through an aperture 

a cast iron grid

a fake smile

a passing hello. 

Gone from being a cog in a machine

operating in/outside of my own will

feeling yet filling a space

my duty.

I'm allergic to nuts

yet I remain bolted to it all

bolting across facades and grand gestures

carry me in pocket-sized boxes

cages of hope

caves of expectation

a parcel no longer in time

busy me with a smile

a nod

a hi

a blink.

Much like the cinnamon loaf above, we're all made up of parts of the same things but there's no formula to the arrangement of parts. We are all interesting symphonies of taste, thoughts, securities and insecurities. I'm allergic to nuts yet I'm preparing a whole grain, seeded loaf with nuts inside my mind. I've peppered myself with various nuts to remain that cog in the machine we call familiarity. There's something to be said of any state when you'd simply rather be "away". I must now find a way of picking out the nuts and all the residue. I'm learning, still. 

Of all the things in life I need, This I Knead.

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