Returned

There is the perennial question inquiring into my being. How are you? They ask, and I blindly respond. I respond blindly and unfiltered. I respond untouched by society. I respond. I respond and seek validation. I respond and seek acceptance. How am I? The truth in the response is illusive, ephemeral, and empty. I remain untouched by society, and seeking to touch it. The glass wall is still there. The air that I breathe is still free. 

Don't care

Never did. Occasionally I can pretend as though I do. Mostly, I do not even try. But do tell me, what does money have to do with love? Why is it that the gold diggers keep on circling like vultures?
I don't care about them. I do not care for the gold diggers. I never cared for them. It is about time that my mother take note of that. I do not care for the gold diggers. I am incapable of loving them. Any of them. I don't love them. I do not want to love them. Never did.

Returning

It is the second day. She sits by the window in the morning hours. Digital toxicology, famine, and too much theory suggest that peace remains a utopian construct that delays the species on its self-destruction path.
Life, that she has seen. She has seen it all. It is boring these days for the one who has been searching for what was there all along. She is like the tired Buddha sitting under that famed tree of the legends. She needs a rest. Doing the dishes, taking a shower; anything will do. Just a rest. Just a break. She can not hear, much less listen to the lamentations of this world.
It is the second day of Ramadan. She returns.