He Comes...

Was there ever a time when warmth poured in and the welcome from its presence was dignified, proven and drowning in the need for more...? Of that, I cannot recall. I am foreign to the former year; the introduction to two-fifteen has another layer of skin burgeoning out from hidden depths that has yet to know the light of day.

"Where are you now..."

A call to arms; a call to action; a call to love.

An inner blooming has me desensitized from the former layers of rot and sinew that have kept me choked and away from clean air to breathe for my heart that has, for so long, chosen - exemption.
Am I hesitating to articulate what now forms on the precipice of lips that seek kissing, instead of the cold steel reality of solitude?

The New Year wants me mute to my aged longing that turned in on itself long ago. I have been akin to the quiet clamoring of all I refuse to engage in and once the Universe issued a response to November's earnest wishes... I have been bathing in kindness and love.

I am weary, and weepy, trembling from the influx of authenticity...

I am learning; I am loving; I am found.

Intentions of the Quiet Morning...

When I wake to the sound of breathing, a crooning hush warms the mood. I know the countdown has begun for the amount of silence I am given to rise and enjoy my coffee and thoughts before my children wake and enliven the day. This is my time for reflecting; to self-check and figure out how to go about the day productively - with as little time for wasting as possible.

This morning has me rotating over matters of health. I find I am trying again to burrow in deeply to the root of ailments that confine me to a bench of inactivity. I am leaking out precious moments of futures not yet lived, and even in the now, barking about such loss has me stuck fast to said bench: aware but not in control.
Useless decay of uncommitted days passed has this moment locked in more loss. How to break away from the crater of languid insufficiency? I need action at the elbows and knees to launch me off this sliver-ridden stack of slack. Or I will continue to go nowhere - fast.

(An hour or two passes, the morning - now aged)

I am hunting for art sold New Year's Eve and in doing so, I am coming across handwritten notes to myself as far back as 2000. Tears. Sickened. Loss. If the mark of two-fifteen wants to set a strike for worthiness, it will begin by heeding the warning of all these sacrificial lovenotes I keep finding; drowning in the misery of their reclusive misgivings, of their untimeliness, of their loneliness, of their wounded tenderness.
How much more time need be wasted on the forgotten strum of misery? The company of which, for any more years will have me so tightly wound in self-persecution that I may turn blue in the night and expire from self-induced waste.

I am evaporating in the steam of my continued backwards toss.

Blindly diving into the same sludge pool of decrepit guilt and wandering uselessness.

Fuck my last minute gasp to do 'the right things...'

Slap to both sides of my face, a punch - square to the jaw, dislocation is paramount at this juncture, if I am to rid myself of the same ghastly existence I have been lulling in for far too fuckin' long. At this point, to stamp the time with a trademark, I would only roll my eyes another thousand times and continue down another thousand days or more of forgettable prose and dilemma. I need shucking and I need it done effectively - efficiently. Sharp razors and curmudgeon-wielding. Effective, efficient. These are the components that must be suffered, endured and sucked into my reserves if I have any hope of making it out of this doomsday of emotive rot that lie betwixt every nook and cranny of all I dwell in physically, mentally, spiritually.

Shucked and fucked and near enough to almost be forgotten.

The quiet morning is now roaring and the monster inside has been offended. Good. This is the way to chaff the char and break into the burn of brand new skins; pores that spill into a foreign consciousness. A place I have suspected and tickled in my own uplifting way (albeit seldom and few and farthest between).  I gots to gets this shit done.

Day two into this 'New Year' and already my weaknesses are revealing themselves as I had hoped. I need to reconcile my attentions to the grease in my elbows and allow the forward march of my now to become engorged with the willingness to love myself and all I encounter. At 41, I give myself the permission to tackle what needs tackling, and to tap into any and all resources to lynch and weed out the anti-progressives.
Fuck my stalwart indecision that always has me strapped to the indecency of remaining hidden.

I need M O R E.
 

Reasons, Give Me Reasons...

Grammatical blunders, offensive diction, spelling errors and misplaced commas; how often will they 'dictate' the 'mean' of the moment? Very little, proper arrangement is more an arrogant underscore of the willingness to explore the very essence of 'explanations' along with the inherent drive towards verbalized perfection.
This matters...? Yes, yes, everything matters in the world of gadgetry.

I want my point to be made and made well, to whom and for what reason...? Matters not.
This is an exercise to expand the arena of November, in which I attempted to slit the veins of my intellectual confinement and share the profuse, dark red banalities of all I curtail in the wake of altruistic virtue.

"It's never enough until your heart stops beating, the deeper you get, the sweeter the pain; don't give up again until your heart stops beating." -Sumner

The truth here is quaint, among all things considered. Triviality has not been allowed to accumulate in this congress of 41 year old thoughts, or so I think. But with a cerebral cortex that runs at a constant high RPM, what am I to do if I cannot analyze and decipher all I am deducing...? Nothing is forming with a lick of coherency, and so therefore, I am destined to falter. So, type on... as though I need another project.
And I do... I do. I crave it like dry skin seeking perfumed oil. 

There is a constant sweltering that beckons damn near daily; I would enjoy (ever-so-much) to extract and stop these distractions, and instead, understand them - more.
So, fuck all the 'Eat, Pray, Love' shit, let us serve up some significant portions of truth and therein we may find an answer to stand behind (or two or three...).

2015 has arrived and with it - some ice cold fucking weather. Those sweaters from Ma are in some strange and dubious way, an omen for the week that has followed Christmas, 2014. I wear them daily now, when in all the years previous (at least twenty) I had not owned but one that I wore out of necessity. This has   happened before; she has had a lifelong propensity for clairvoyant occurrences and I have been witness to it more than once.

As I sit here, closing out the final moments of this first day of January, 2015, I am reminded of the power that backs dedication and how fortunate I am to have remained diligent to the dumping of such ideas at this ripe old age of 41. May these next 364 days find me willing to cooperate with revelations of significance and more than willing to clutch the hand of 'uncomfortable' in order to trigger the change I crave.

"What matters will be how well you walked through the fire" -Bukowski

I'm walking, and half the time, I fuckin' run.