Letting go of the reins when the trees are sagging under the weight of irony and past iniquities may be cathartic. Removing those blinders amid the collapse will sear the brain and remove any lingering doubt about the future.
For the shifts in mood and temperature, check the dogs. They are the barometer we can’t seem to reconcile. Sometimes it is the cumulative that does us in. Like a cat with ball of wool. Once it’s unraveled, that’s the end.
I wish for a clear path from Point A to Point Z. If I stomp on my dreams, if I hit play, if I forget to love, if, if, if. The God of Variables defies me. Our Lady of Misty Confusion works against me. The cat licks herself and laughs.