Saturday, August 23, 2014

sailing with a checklist

after gathering all the blips of a beautiful day, that should be happy and all that, but instead, is filled with doubt and fear, in equal parts, of where I fall in the rhinestone scale, did I make a passably progressive trail, have I left in the right milestones, the urge to gather a sample set and questionair it...

trying hard to stick to a stream of consciousness, I mean, unstick and flow really, so the artery between heart and fingers is allowed, to peel off skin after skin, mask upon mask, and be true, to mine own self, that thinks the most beautiful things, the most horrific things, but that be life, anything true, is filled with equal parts misery too, and its useless to do anything but steer into the skid and hope for the best, once the determination to leave a positive balance has been established, handed over like an overripe fruit to be eaten or thrown

my age is all caught up, the free ride is almost gone, the people who people this world cannot pardon a me without clear outlines and a trail of paperwork, which I have of course made a trail of paper boats arranged in the stream, in the rain, just because, the trees are so green and beautiful, and if we must waste paper, lets waste it right, instead of filling it with pointless things, and leaving them in stiff stacks for more of.

this age brings with it more slowdown, urging me to practice waiting right NOW, to spin the coins and march no matter how they fall, or when. this age is unwelcome, brings with it more fears, more weight of big important labels that I stick on my boxes, before forgetting what they mean, what order they go in, which boxes have what, and why boxes.

this soul is still a little deaf, the memories haven't faded,they are all there, waiting to be examined, and delighted with or cringed from, but they come slower now, after multiple stops to decompress. the silences have gotten longer and stronger, and the things I will do to avoid words more determined, this life is now a length of knotted string, well anchored, and yet, and yet, tangling wildly in the wind, ought to be a straight line (now where did that come from)

aside from the somewhat plaintive wail at linear time piercing through irregular space, I think life is good...

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