Flowings of Your Everlasting Taffyman

I'm listening to the Ex-Lovers proclaim "the beauty of the world cannot be contained",
and though I often feel the same, lately my life seems quite plain.
I click through pictures, 360 posted by friends.
Its weird to see the facial expressions, clothing and hair styles, backgrounds, and in some honesty, and in some love, and in some adventure, and in some learning, and in some broadcast, and in some vanity, and in some compassion, but in all life of some sort... and lately mine seems so mundane.
Simple yet chosen that way.
I was getting ready to type to a friend on facebook that I only had reading and sleeping as options for the evening, but then I remembered I had turned down drinking and dancing. Had turned down possible excursions that might create bed buddies, or heart connections, turned down shallow bar conversation or laughing at jokes, turned down watching the expressions on beautiful people's faces. At least a night of camera filled activity.
Something to capture to that hard drive of memory.
To remind me I am, and sometimes act.
To remind me I am more than I seem,
to remind me I have lived and prospered and dreamed.
Connected and rested in exotic locales,
experienced God and drugs and sex and music all climatic.
shared in tears, cum, blood, vomit, piss and shit.
lived in the light and the dark, walked crawled and run, fought and screamed,
killed and created through all hours of day and night.
licked and sniffed every sanctuary human made or bred.
let my eyes and mind wander and conceive of any colorful, frightful or beautiful,
impossible or probable, end and means, to any degree, even when it chained and broke me, choked or gave to me, enabled or disabled me.
have my fingers not traced each and every, whether off limits or invited, texture soft and lovely, sticky, sweaty, hard and gravelly,
have I not bitten off more than I can chew and swallowed more than I could expend
Have I not relaxed in the arms of a loved or beloved one
have I not tasted each sweet?
gagged at every sour bitter tart and tangy
winced at each spice,
with a pinch from each vice
arms against too much hedonistic intent
yet still I rant with flare
discontent
comparing my life now
to what had once been there.