You had your drink and I had my things and together it made for turmoil. I was so tired and you full of desire that there was little left to show. Some god must have known how to have thrown in the towel as we sat patiently waiting. Then life caught up and anger welled as we were fraught with tension.
There were little things to hate here and there, yet nothing could equate to the frustrating fares of this life. I only remember hating the drinks and you being done with my things until the next morning.
I just didn’t mind the aching muscles and tired temples right before the dawn. I wanted to explore new territory and to challenge myself and those around me to be a little nicer. Then extraneous variables somehow seeped into the mix and turned a yellow morning into a cloudy, yet boiling afternoon. I wanted to stand up for myself then—stand on a mountain and let my voice echo my truths and experiences in dealing with angry faces and curdled lips because their voices were acrid and their chests were a graveyard of worms because even they could not get nutrition from that rancor. Who knows? Perhaps I still will let my words crash into their ears like heavy waves against the cliffs, deafening all else.
The only thing that anchors me to small islands is the pleasure of the waves. In fact, it’s often easy to swim offshore until the ripples of the water lure me back to land, but small islands don’t fill large souls and they are insufficient and emptying. I have always been a creature of the water—free flowing and cool to the touch. With each passing day, I’m more at ease as I swim out a little farther each time. Soon small islands will fade into the horizon and I will swim to new shores or perhaps I’ll reach depths previously untraveled and will dwell in its hypnotic embrace.
Release, breathe it all out. Let the impurities flow out of your soul and let the wind erode them out or existence. Let go of that precarious ledge you have held on to; a pool of water awaits you. All is well. All will be well when you break the surface.
Repetition leads to desensitization. It’s interesting how after some time you just don’t expect anything different and there’s only emptiness remaining. Thank goodness for evolutionary tactics. My favorite part in all of this is when all is uncovered by light.
Close each open space that you left open and conceal that which was exposed at one time or another. May the only parts that remain permeable be small and far between. Certainly try to remember where all the places that closed have been.
She said “fuck it” none of it is worth it
This feeling of insufficiency in you and you and them
She said “sleep it off”
Addictions are better left
To be treated in the bright mornings
When the candor of the sun sings its light
Into your eyes, enkindling your vision
With flames of truths that have been burning around your
Everything is heightened as if this cold front brought
things into perspective. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach when in the
past there would be exhilaration, perhaps it’s all the pills getting me down
and interacting in some way that deviates from the norm like a statistical
significance. There is the dark and there is the light and sometimes one takes
over the other as if to give the other the rest it requires to return more
strongly. There can’t be much like whittling away the pieces layers to leave
space for the art underneath created by steady hands. At times all is not well
and she will be difficult. Terse words should be enough to express the extent
of the depths within. Maybe I’m less patient because I don’t feel well and I’m a
bit unhealthy or maybe it’s because I’m tired of being the repetitive waves
crashing against the shore to soak tiny pieces of sand created artificially. Be
dark, unflinching, tense, and done if you need to be. She will be.
Finally satiated with the sweet wine of your vineyards, I sleep well tonight for yesterday I was vividly aware of the walls around me and the flesh on my bones. Today I just needed to escape the cage that is my body into an oblivion of desire.
Such a laboring thought, to know that all you can do is wait. It’s almost as if your chest were a wet towel wrung dry many times and now the threads are jagged and frayed. I’m looking forward to opening my hands and letting it all go.