Storytelling and posting it upside down

  ˙ǝıl ǝɥʇ slɐǝʌǝɹ ɥʇnɹʇ ǝɥ⊥  ˙ɥʇnɹʇ ǝɥʇ pɹɐnƃ sǝıl ǝɥ⊥  ˙lnɟıʇnɐǝq sı uoıʇdǝɔǝp ǝɥ⊥  ˙pǝʇdǝɔɔɐ ǝq oʇ sʇuɐʍ ʎlǝʇɐɹǝdsǝp oɥʍ ǝuo ǝɥʇ uo ʎʇıd ǝʞɐ⊥


˙ǝǝs oʇ sǝʎǝ ɹno ɹoɟ pǝɹ sʍolɟ poolq uǝɥʍ pǝʇɐʌıʇɔɐ sı ʇɐɥʇ uıɐɹq ǝɥʇ uı ʇɹɐd ǝʌıʇıɯıɹd ɐ s,ʇI ˙uıʞs ǝɥʇ ɹǝpun pǝuıɐʇuoɔ sı ʇı ǝlıɥʍ ɯǝʇsʎs ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ƃuıʌoɯ poolq ǝɥʇ 'ʎpoq ǝɥʇ ɟo ƃuıʞɹoʍ lɐuɹǝʇuı ǝɥʇ oʇ ʇɥƃnoɥʇ ʎuɐ sǝʌıƃ oɥM  ˙ɥsınƃuıʇsıp oʇ ʎsɐǝ ʇou ǝɔuǝnlɟuı ǝʌıʇɔnpǝs ∀  ˙pǝɹʇɐɥ ʎq pǝʇɐǝɹɔ ʎƃɹǝuǝ ǝɥʇ ǝʇɐdıssıp ʇ,usǝop ʇǝǝʍs ɯǝɥʇ dǝǝʞ puɐ sʇɥƃnoɥʇ ɹnoʎ pɹɐnƃ o⊥  ˙sƃuıǝq uɐɯnɥ llɐ uı sllǝʍp ʇɐɥʇ ʎƃɹǝuǝ pǝsnun ǝɥʇ ǝzıɯıʇɔıʌ oʇ ƃuıʇıɐʍ sı ʇI  ˙ʎƃɹǝuǝ ɹoɟ uo spǝǝɟ ʇı sʇıɐɹʇ uɐɯnɥ ǝɥʇ ɹǝƃuɐ ǝɥʇ 'pǝɹʇɐɥ ǝɥʇ 'ǝƃɐɹ ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝllıɟ sı ʇI  ˙ǝɟıl oʇ sǝɯoɔ ʇɐoɔ ssǝlǝɟıl ǝɥ⊥  ˙pǝɹʇɐɥ sı ʇI  ˙ǝƃɐɹ sı ʇI  ˙ʇɐoɔ ǝɥʇ pǝllıɟ ʇɐɥʇ ɹıɐ ʇ,usı ʇı ʇɥƃnoɥʇ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ pǝɯlǝɥʍɹǝʌo sı puıɯ ʎW  ˙ɔıuɐd oʇ ǝɔuɐɥɔ ǝɥʇ ǝʌɐɥ I ǝɹoɟǝq ˙ǝɥʇɐǝɹq oʇ ʎpoq ʎɯ puıɯǝɹ oʇ sǝʞɐʇ ʇı uoıʇɐɹʇuǝɔuoɔ ǝɥ⊥   ˙ƃuıʞɹoʍ doʇs plnoɔ sƃunl ʎɯ ǝʞı⅂  ˙ƃuıɥʇɐǝɹq ʎɯ ɟo ǝɹɐʍɐ ʎlǝʇǝldɯoɔ ʍoɹƃ I 'ʇsǝɥɔ ʎɯ uı ssǝuıʌɐǝɥ ǝɥ⊥  ˙sʇuǝɹɹnɔ ɹıɐ ǝlqısıʌuı ɯoɹɟ ʎɐʍɐ pǝɹɹɐɾ sı ʇɥƃnoɥʇ ʇxǝu ʎW  ˙ǝʇɐlɟuı oʇ ʇǝʞɔɐɾ ɹǝɥʇɐǝl ʎʌɐǝɥ ɐ ǝq oʇ pǝɹɐǝddɐ ʇɐɥʍ ǝsnɐɔ oʇ ɹıɐ ɟo ʇsnƃ lnɟǝɔɹoɟ ʇɔǝɹıp ɐ ɟo sǝɔuɐɥɔ ǝɥʇ ʇnoqɐ pǝɹǝpuoʍ puıɯ ʎW  ˙sǝʇɐlɟǝp ʎlʞɔınb ʇI  ˙ǝdɐɥs ǝʞıl uɐɯnɥ sʇı ʎq pǝlʇɹɐʇs ɯ,I  ˙ǝʇɐƃıʇsǝʌuı puɐ doʇs oʇ uosɐǝɹ ǝlqɐıɟıʇsnɾ oN  ˙ʎɐʍpɐoɹ ǝɥʇ oʇ ʞɔɐq s,ʇı ɥʇıʍ ɹǝʌo pǝdɯnls uosɹǝd ɐ ǝq oʇ sɹɐǝddɐ ǝdɐɥs ǝɥʇ 'ʇuǝɯǝʌoɯ ppo puɐ ʞɔınb ɐ uI  ˙uoollɐq ɐ ǝʞıl llıɟ oʇ ʇı sǝsnɐɔ puɐ ʇɐoɔ ǝɥʇ ɹǝpun pǝʇɟɐɹp dn ɹıɐ ɟo ʍollıq ɐ ǝʞıl sʞool ʇI  ˙ǝƃuɐɹʇs ɯǝǝs ʇ,usǝop ʇı ǝlɔıʇɹɐ ƃuıɥʇolɔ ɐ sı ʇı pǝɔuıʌuoɔ sı puıɯ ʎɯ ǝɔuO  ˙ǝʌoɯ oʇ ʇɐoɔ ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ uosɐǝɹ ǝlqısnɐld ɐ ǝʞıl sɯǝǝs ʎq ƃuıɯooz sǝlɔıɥǝʌ ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝʇɐǝɹɔ ʇuǝɹɹnɔ ɹıɐ ǝɥ⊥  ˙ʇɐoɔ ɹǝɥʇɐǝl ƃuol ɐ ǝʞıl sʞoo⅂  ˙pǝʍollɐ ʇou ǝɹɐ suɐıɹʇsǝpǝd ǝɹǝɥʍ ǝɔɐld ǝɥ⊥  ˙ɯǝʇsʎs ʎɐʍɥƃıH ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇɹɐd sı ʇɐɥʇ ʇuǝɯǝsɐǝ ǝɥʇ ƃuıuıɟǝᗡ  ˙pɐoɹ ǝɥʇ oʇ lǝllɐɹɐd ǝɔuǝɟ ǝɥ⊥  ˙lıɐɹ ǝɔuǝɟ ǝɥʇ ɹǝʌo pǝdɐɹp sı ƃuıɥʇǝɯoS

  ˙pǝɟ sı lnos ǝɥʇ ɹǝʌo sǝʞɐʇ ssǝɔoɹd ǝɥ⊥  ˙uǝddɐɥ ʎǝɥʇ sıɥʇ ǝʞıl sʇuǝɯoɯ ɹoɟ noʎ sǝɹɐdǝɹd ǝuo oN  ˙pǝʌɐs ʇǝƃ llɐ sllǝɯs ǝɥʇ 'spunos ǝɥʇ 'sɹoloɔ ǝɥ⊥  ˙ʎɹoɯǝɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇɹɐd sǝɯoɔǝq lɐsnoɹɐ ʎɹosuǝs ǝɥ⊥   ˙pıʌıʌ ǝɹɐ ʎǝɥʇ puɐ pǝʇɐǝɹɔ ʇǝƃ sǝıɹoɯǝɯ ǝɯoS

  ˙snldɹns ʎƃɹǝuǝ ǝɯıʇ ɯɐǝɹp ǝɥʇ ǝpısɐ ƃuıʇʇǝS  ˙pǝpɹɐɔsıp ǝq oʇ ǝnpısǝɹ dn pǝsn ƃuıʇɔǝlloϽ  ˙ɥʇʍoɹƃ ƃuıʇɐɹǝuǝ⅁  ˙ǝzılɐɹʇnǝu ɹo ǝƃɹnd oʇ ʇnduı ɔıxoʇ ƃuıʇɐlosI  ˙ʇuǝɯɥsıɹnou puıɟ oʇ sǝıɹoɯǝɯ ƃuıllɐɔǝᴚ ˙suoıʇɔunɟ uıɐɹq ǝɥʇ ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ lɐǝɯ ɐ ƃuıʇsǝƃıp oʇ ɹɐlıɯıs sı ʇı ǝsoddns I  ˙ǝƃuɐɹʇs ɹo pɐq 'pooƃ sɐ ʎɐp ʎɯ ƃuıʎɟılɐnb ɟlǝsʎɯ ǝɔıʇou I  ˙ƃuolɐ ʇɟıɹp I ɹǝʌıɹ ʍollɐɥs ɐ uı ʇuǝɹɹnɔ ǝɥʇ ǝʞıl 'ʇı uı ƃuıʎɐʇs puɐ ǝuɐl ǝuo ƃuıʞɔıԀ  ˙ǝɯoɥ ǝʌıɹp ǝɥʇ uo ʎɐp ǝɥʇ ɟo sʇɥƃnoɥʇ ʎɯ ƃuılǝʌɐɹun oʇ pǝsn uǝʇʇoƃ pɐɥ I

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I had gotten used to unraveling my thoughts of the day on the drive home.  Picking one lane and staying in it, like the current in a shallow river I drift along.  I notice myself qualifying my day as good, bad or strange.  I suppose it is similar to digesting a meal the way the brain functions. Recalling memories to find nourishment.  Isolating toxic input to purge or neutralize.  Generating growth.  Collecting used up residue to be discarded.  Setting aside the dream time energy surplus.

Some memories get created and they are vivid.   The sensory arousal becomes part of the memory.  The colors, the sounds, the smells all get saved.  No one prepares you for moments like this they happen.  The process takes over the soul is fed.  

Something is draped over the fence rail.  The fence parallel to the road.  Defining the easement that is part of the Highway system.  The place where pedestrians are not allowed.  Looks like a long leather coat.  The air current created by the vehicles zooming by seems like a plausible reason for the coat to move.  Once my mind is convinced it is a clothing article it doesn't seem strange.  It looks like a billow of air up drafted under the coat and causes it to fill like a balloon.  In a quick and odd movement, the shape appears to be a person slumped over with it's back to the roadway.  No justifiable reason to stop and investigate.  I'm startled by its human like shape.  It quickly deflates.  My mind wondered about the chances of a direct forceful gust of air to cause what appeared to be a heavy leather jacket to inflate.  My next thought is jarred away from invisible air currents.  The heaviness in my chest, I grow completely aware of my breathing.  Like my lungs could stop working.   The concentration it takes to remind my body to breathe. Before I have the chance to panic.  My mind is overwhelmed with the thought it isn't air that filled the coat.  It is rage.  It is hatred.  The lifeless coat comes to life.  It is filled by the rage, the hatred, the anger the human traits it feeds on for energy.  It is waiting to victimize the unused energy that dwells in all human beings.  To guard your thoughts and keep them sweet doesn't dissipate the energy created by hatred.  A seductive influence not easy to distinguish.  Who gives any thought to the internal working of the body, the blood moving through the system while it is contained under the skin. It's a primitive part in the brain that is activated when blood flows red for our eyes to see.

Take pity on the one who desperately wants to be accepted.  The deception is beautiful.  The lies guard the truth.  The truth reveals the lie.