may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile

     e.e.cummings

It’s a splendid summer Saturday here in the Midwest.  And my thoughts and outlook attained  pristine clarity just moments ago while running in the midday sun.  And I grew stronger as I ran.  At such times, I begin to feel like a king.  And it’s good to be king—as long as you remain strong.

Yet today this king has his BattleMode :ON .

I sense a new attack coming.  The mounting trembling of it occurs as a sighting of tsunamis upon a psychic ocean, my psychic ocean, which to me is akin to the web of a spider transmitting reverberations back to it of things beyond its immediate reach.  And though I also now find myself as sentimentally parched as if I’ve just run a marathon in an affecting desert, the appeal of an imminent tsunami to quench my emotional dehydration is absurd.  So these emotional urges, normally serving as life-enhancing, are hereby discarded as dysfunctional.

Such forebodings in my life have seldom been meritless.  And this feeling now has resounded in my psyche for the last day and a half.  BattleMode OUBLE ON .

All heretofore trusts are henceforth, at least temporarily, relegated to :SUSPEND .
Only allies, engaged as such upon the battlefield, will find my trust.

It is said that one should never raise a sword unless one is prepared to use it.  I have now unsheathed my foil.  And my bow is newly racked with razor-tipped arrows.  Allies be assured.  Enemies be warned.

note: I am not sensing all this as another "attack" on Xanga, it is possibly something more personal and yet also so impersonal as confer upon Satan himself amnesia.