Ragged from the Trying

I flail.

Constantly and absurdly.

Like a flea lashing out against the wind (i.e. electric fan) through which his promised land lies (i.e. sheep dog.)

I do not say this lightly. Likening oneself to an annoying, toothy gnat is not nice on one’s self-esteem, let me assure you.

But there you are, or there I am rather… Flea-like.

What’s brought this on, you might wander?

My travel blog. You know, old “Tiptoeing Soul.” A decadent, voracious but much needed muncher of my spare time. Yesterday I spent five hours writing/posting the thing… a thing no more than a dozen or so people will ever read.

Why would I do such a foolish thing?

Flea-flailing.

This little flea fated to be financially dependent on family forever continues to lash out heartily against the electric fan (mental illness) of my existence.

Let’s be brutally honest for a moment. I will most likely die essentially broke and alone one day. But, if it’s any consolation to anyone, my bones will be buried exhausted and ragged from the trying.

Whether this is good, bad or sad, I frankly don’t know.. but I don’t think fleas generally care much about appearances anyhow.

Until tomorrow…

Chloe, the Flea

Post-note: In case you are interested, in this one analogy my “sheep dog” would be making enough to file income tax. A small sheep dog, to be sure, but one that would be cherished absurdly.