AnOublietteofThought

late night linens fall—a sequestered alcove velocity's reminiscent failed report contorts a devastating scale lopsided and pantomiming all retail's a reconstituted jail cell, sale, come sail away once failed replay every quest's a state of malpractice spurned to prey upon light's thread of few today judgement's withdrawn open eyes tis no surprise all warranties have been redacted

Written August 8, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

... A poem within a dream I hope to not revisit.

Personal log: Experimental

I LOVE pebble ice! I've been experimenting. So far, my favorite way to crunch and munch on them is with a sprinkle of electrolytes. Not just any electrolytes. Oh, no, no, no, no. Hibiscus electrolytes with a tiny dash of ground freeze-dried rosehips. The latter isn't necessary. It's just additional happy yum.

The air pockets in the ice end up wicking the liquified powder up into the ice via capillary action, so every morsel of crunch is an explosion of flavor! There's so much crunch! So much cold! I'm getting quite the dopamine hit, and my oral fixation tendency is pretty happy right now.

On the plus side, having zirconia teeth means I can crunch my happy little heart out.

On the negative side, canines go ouch when I bite wrong. Also, I should probably slow down on the crunching because my tongue is numb enough that I sound ridiculous trying to speak.

I am in a very happy place, sensory-wise. It only takes a tiny sprinkle because the cold amplifies the tart sweetness. My trigeminal nerve is all brrrrrrr. Which is admittedly a wee bit euphoric. And I am shivering with delight though it is currently 101°F outside.

I have always been a sucker for this type of tea. Preferably iced. Having it sucked into the ice with the addition of electrolytes... holy moly! I can only think of one thing that would make this better right now. Alas, it's not something that is going to happen. One day, I shall ensure that it will. I'm not sure I'd be capable of handling such bliss, but I'm definitely up for the challenge!

Okay. Enough of that. I do recommend an insulated tumbler so that the glass doesn't sweat. My preference is my 12 ounce Simply Modern Voyager Series Lunar Iced Coffee cup. I don't know if they're still available. Black stainless steel with embossed crescent moons and stars. I normally rarely use it because I don't like coffee and it's rarely cool enough for hot cacao. I shall now use it every single day!

This...This is euphoria!

I should probably research if there's a safety limit on ice crunching. It is sooooo good. It's like sour punch straws whisked into frozen, liquidy, hydrating, goosebumps producing ambrosia. I'm so happy.😹

My intoxicated mouth and I now return you to my normally darker scribbles. Maybe. Or maybe not. It could be, dear journal, that my writing is heading down a much more zany lane until I get accustomed to this sensory high. I think all living quarters should come with this delicious concoction. Wars would surely end.

Did I mention it turns the ice a gorgeous pomegranate color? No? It does. My senses don't know what's beguiled them, but they are a most willing and amorous supplicant.

Written August 6, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

Round thee a square observer mounted high in vivid gleen. I yearn to drink your ardor and every sip of sin between.

Written and painted August 6, 2026 © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

Woke up and doodled to shake off a dream. I can't figure out how to see my typing in the editor if I try to place it after an image. In fact, I can't see the last line in every post. It makes editing a hassle. I shall figure it out one day. Hopefully, one day soon.😸

Alabaster scars reframe a chivalry taught demanding. To fence a quote disclaimer remote: “Being a male is a matter of birth. Being a man is a matter of choice “ I recognize the irony of that invoice. The sum of all clauses I refuse to applaud. Mostly because it's usually an act. There's little tact, and constant redacted matter-of-fact, but the monster looms frank, and I find myself consistently smitten.

Written August 5, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

I had Bride playing in the background while droning through some boring paperwork. My muse wouldn't stop prodding. Needless to say, I gave in and bought myself a few minutes peace.

Forbidden, this failing stoop. Cracked artifice bludgeons a sway, and I, lone psychopomp, crunch whither for pay. I'd rather the gather that slathers all matter stop segueing as batter and begin to mend the bigger picture. The structure's not stricter. It's the fractures that blister, but no one is willing to give alms for balms' sake. They must have a take. A joy of pretend. There's no paying attention, nor listening. Just mend. Let's play “fix” to give praise. Let's corrupt their learned ways. Let's suggest with finesse there's more fruit with our sways. Let's not do a damned thing, but damn just for kicks. We can split, sort, and label, then confine what might mix. It's useless—the approved gist—All for One. One not all. How confounding, the pounding, that persists in doomed thrall. I resist to persist and elope what remains when story crafts affliction as addiction: ordained.

Written August 5, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

…

I know. I did say it unlikely I'd succeed. This is basically my response to an email. I, obviously, will not be sending it. It'd zip right over head anyway. Insert sarcastic end remark somewhere around ———-> HERE.

I've been trying to let the noise quieten, and to walk away from everyday writing. To listen, but need not pick up pen. To ignore the outpouring again and again.

It can't be understated—this urge. It more a habit where thoughts and conscious converge. At the very least, it's an organizing boss. But are the orders worth scribing? Should I void them as loss?

We can't scurry forward if stuck in a rut. Mayhaps, I should merely journal. I think I'd enjoy that, but...

It's more an excuse to still scribble absurdly. To give rhyme to reason and alliterate demurely. I almost changed that end. Let's do it with rhythm instead, and pretend.

I've been trying to let the noise quieten. I just can't decide if it's to lighten or frighten. Perhaps it does both, or neither at all. The words are still there. I've just built them a wall.

...

Ever the ongoing theme with me. Ever the ongoing theme.

On a side note: I now have an ice machine that makes pebbled ice! If a reader has been to Sonic before, it's that kind of ice! I'm utterly ecstatic! Maybe I should write a poem about my adventures with ice. I'm not going to. The onomonopia possibility does humor me.

The last two days I've dreamed of my cats. These days they tend to only show up in my dreams when I need comfort. I'm pretty sure I don't need comfort. One showed up sleeping with me as she always did, but it then turned into her needing fed. Two kittens I didn't recognize showed up as well. Someone I know placed the food I was feeding them into spaghetti, and then gave them the spaghetti. Needless to say, I blew a gasket. I barely managed to stop a kitten from choking. I woke up absolutely infuriated.

Last night, part of my dream involved my more reclusive beauty. She was the first to pass, and she rarely shows up in dreams. We were in a small car. I was taking us somewhere, nervous about getting over my head in traffic. We ended up having to carefully turn around because the road we was on ended up flooded in a lake as far as they eye could see. We backtracked, had to crawl through an over-filled van, and the last I remember she was snuggled against me in my bed where she used to lay. My eyes tear up thinking about it. It's some fifteen years since she passed.

I wonder if I will dream of the other tonight. I miss them. Very much so. I am guessing that I always will. I look forward to when I'm in such a place where I can once again have a little purrball glued to my side, but in an independent way, of course.

I certainly wouldn't feed them spaghetti! Cats are obligate carnivores. Stop pretending otherwise for convenience. Ugggh!

Written August 5, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

Fortitude lapses on the furnace of my chill like ripples cascading across an abandoned minefield. All it takes is one surprise snap, and suddenly it's Splash Mountain —arms all akimbo— in feat retracting clamber.

Void of spotlight shenanigans, I sink into the murky peace, and allow the temptation of hesitation to be clobbered by its own path of mutual resistance. Another step of tape-strung prep saving the splay.

It'll be okay. Speed is not for today.

Repetition quotes a diver-tranced “Again!” Pain is my friend. Ascend to the mend. Red lines may welt across this forwarded moment... Uhhhhmmm. ...but I'm fraught with survival, and an excess of laughing matter.

Written August 3, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

I managed ¾ of a mile this morning. It frustrates me to no end, but I'm reminding myself that all movement forward is still movement. I think learning compassion for myself has been one of the most challenging life lessons. It remains ongoing, and likely will continue to do so.

I was once involved with an organization whose motto is “adapt and overcome.” Who knew it'd become a very important mindset in my life. Of course, the definition of “overcome” has gone through its own metamorphosis. Kind of like me.

Chin up, Buttercup! Life may break your body, but your wit and spirit are unconquerable!

Tonight's play... Nothing special. Blobs of chance prancing in shadow. An interrupted contemplation interpreting the figment of release. The long-awaited exhale tingling to expand. Brecciated completeness. A digital mop. Droplets missing from a dried out palette.

Why do I enjoy the freedom of this so much? I would be annoyed in any other media at any other time, but there is pleasure in this. I think it might be because I'm making a mess that I don't need to clean up. I'm really not sure. It's just there, and it can be deleted with the touch of a button and zero guilt.

I talk a big talk about downsizing my studio, but fuck that's hard to do. Everything has potential, and I grate at knowing I'll likely just go and repurchase down the line. I need a mental adjustment.

I know why I'm not investing in making what I want to. It's nothing to share here. It will definitely pass in a positive direction, but I do feel that need to wait. Like the moment just isn't right. I do want to finish the one project, but realistically there's no place for it, and there will be even less of a place for it in the future. I need to come to terms with size. Maybe I just need to come to terms with me...

I got a pink dress today. Pink! A beautiful high/low number with what I call peek-a-boo sleeves. It was available in black. I've worn two colors 99% of the time for the last eight years or so. One of them being black. My closet used to have much more variation than it currently has.

I'm not sure what I feel about the pink. I think those colors represent my softer, more vulnerable side. Am I allowing that out to play again? I'm not sure. I think I might be. I'm really not sure if the pink still exists within. I imagine it could. It currently feels a bit unsettling. I may have moved on from it, but I do know I gravitate towards the pink dress instead of the black. It surprised me. It's something I need to consider.

I am grateful for the opportunity to fumble my way back towards a more complete me. Life often escorts us into roles that we didn't choose, or maybe we did choose them but weren't aware of what that choice would mean. We release little pieces of ourselves, outgrow others, and even have some stolen.

My birthday is in a few months. I don't know why I continue to be surprised by my age. I probably always will be. I feel a major shift continuing to happen. Not just in the world—in myself. Maybe that's why I'm finding such joy in just throwing color on a digital page.

Written August 2, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

Come sit in uncertainty with me. Let us open the door of wonder and dare to welcome what greets us across that threshold. Let's embrace our lack of understanding with a curious awe, and delve into the probability that all we assume to be true is either incomplete or wrong. Unwrap the definition we've limited consciousness to and expand in the glory of our lack of specialness. Are we able to step into the unknown and meet it without terms, and without feeling the need to conquer it. Can we accept that our own definitions are the heavy chains that shackle us in place? Are we able to rise without trampling upon all that has allowed that flight to occur? Dare we to see ourselves less clearly, but with more awareness? Come sit in uncertainty with me... Let's explore.

Written August 2, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

Is it possible to not get singed when in close vicinity of someone determined to commit spiritual self-immolation? I don't know. Trying to release the residue of such an encounter had me doodling this for tonight's digital meditation painting on my phone.

I openly admit that I suck when it comes to painting on my phone, but there's something about the act of doing so that floods me with great relief. Perhaps it is because it's the one media I don't feel bad about mucking up, and I just allow myself to move color around. There is such freedom in that.

While doing so tonight, I realized the expectations I place upon myself are often quite silly and counter-productive. I think I'm going to make myself share more of them here due to that. Not all, but maybe the ones representing an important moment.

There is a person in my life who likes to compare today's me with a me from thirty years ago. With a me who was not comfortable in her own skin, but was determined to be seen in a very specific light. She was not succeeding in the way that I now define success. She was exceptionally good at surviving, and rose to every challenge that came her way. She was miserable most of the time. Terrified more often than not. And mistakes were not allowed. She wasn't someone I'd encourage anyone to be. She definitely did not love herself.

Today, I do. He seems to have a real problem with that. I think it more that he can't stand himself therefore he needs someone to project all of that self-loathing on to. When he decides to go there, it's a massive energy suck from multiple directions, and it always leaves me feeling it in a multitude of ways. I have gotten much better at navigating that.

I wasn't sure if writing this or sharing the doodle was the correct choice. I now find my eyes growing heavy to the soothing sounds of nature I have raining in the background. That tells me the magic of acknowledging is working. I am grateful for the sleepy smile this contemplation has gifted me. Perhaps come morn I will feel much lighter.

Written August 1, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.