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It's hard not to think. I've always been that way: think about it, think about it, overthink it, but never really do. I'm a chronic fence-sitter, I can never make up my mind. It always seems like if I put a little more thought into it, I'll get that little lightbulb above my head and everything will suddenly make some kind of sense; maybe twisted, maybe fucked up and beyond explanation, but sense nonetheless. A strictly point-a-to-point-b line of action that will make everything alright and everybody can be satisfied with it. But that never really happens, does it? Life's fucked like that, never capitulating to what should be straightforward and simple. Always throwing a curve in just for giggles, seeing how you'll react this time and whether or not you'll be surprised that something's fucked up yet again.
So of course I think. I dwell. I plot and scheme and raise painstakingly-developed maps from the chaos. I try to stay one step ahead of the motherfucker. I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, trying to decide where the next shot will come from. And why? Why, when it doesn't make a difference? It doesn't matter if I see the bullshit building up if I can't get out of its way. So why do that? Why care? Let the chips fall where they may, right? You can't predict the future, you don't know what's going to happen tomorrow or the next day or ten years from now when you're lying in bed and staring at the ceiling like you have on so many nights of your life, trying to read the peaked and valleyed stucco like some kind of reality-bending braille. You can't know. You'll never know.
The game is rigged. So just fuck off with the rationalizations, because this isn't something you can win.
i feel a verb inside of me.
i am so full of these words that don't tell her a fucking thing.
truant
pain killers, he called them. something to punish in a novel way. something to warm the tide that crashed over his body, ceaseless and disturbing in the way it carried him further. he drowned in it, years ago, and he hoped to drown in it again. to forget and forgive, to lie and tell truth, to find a way home from the airy casket of the life he'd found on land. he hoped, he supposed, he dreamed and even lingered for one final magnolia breath that would call to him in the absence. it came, but it was fleeting and overdue, and he fell into the surge without a backwards glimpse of those linked as a chain on sand to see him free.
nadir
he sat alone, huddled and bobbing in the mindless empty between her comings and goings. the night was cavernous, sifting subtly through shades of regret at the pace of a low tide. form came slowly and yet surely, carried against the weight of decades that he could do nothing to change. he asked where his path would at last raise ungainly head, and his answer was the broad, unhearing murmur of the ocean. the stars sank, rose, carried on with a purpose he could never hope to fathom, told him truths and lies, fed him fear from a grail of his own making, and delivered him ruthlessly to a beachhead built of tapered shale and nascent hope. so
So. I have a tattoo now.
It's a Fibonacci spiral. More to come as money's available.
© 2013 - 2024 tospiteyourface
Comments1
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wow,there you go elucubrating again.
