Sometimes you have to wait for someone to give you a PING to write about.
Sometimes you have to chase it down crowded streets during Christmas shopping season full of angry consumers seeking to feed on that last shiny item that helps them assign value to themselves.
Sometimes you have to sit really still because the crystalline chrysalis of PING is so fragile that inhaling too hard will kill it… kill your baby – the one you’ve been birthing silently within you for two whole minutes, or seven or so decades.
The PING is the prompt.
Sometimes the prompt does not wish to be found, and there you are, ready to go, with no PING, no prompt, no nothing, and two carafes worth of caffeinated energy begging to be put to use what’s behind the door, and that PING, that prompt, that key is M.I.A.
Sometimes though, it’s waiting for you, like a lover.
Sometimes PING is warm and inviting like a Jacuzzi with the bubbles and heat set to the come-in-and-stay-awhile setting.
Sometimes it is a lover you’ve avoided for far too long, and you and PING are staring at each other hungrily, knowing there is an imminent, and immediate makeup session about to take place.
Sometimes you wear the prompt like your favorite coat, and it goes everywhere with you that day, romping through your memories and current experiences, making unlikely marriages and fellowships while you move comfortably through the day.
Sometimes the prompt just is, & you can do nothing but embrace it, engage it, take it into you like a breath of air, and push it out just as subconsciously.
“Sometimes that [PING] removes a person’s filter until all they have left to speak is the truth.”
The prompt is the PING, and sometimes it (fill it it, why don’t you?)…
TiMo
Here’s where you can read me:
www.alwaysalreadyalright.blogspot.com
www.pmeqme.blogspot.com
