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.
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.
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