October 25, 2010 § 3 Comments
Tonight i have this urge to exercise my right to words – and purge. … these toxins of stress and fear and … momentary lapses in strength. This heartache it comes with.
Like tiny beads of sweat, collecting under the very surface of my tired brain… i have this urge to let it go. to make it be gone, once I’m done with this string of never, ending, sequences of words . You find there’s little meaning behind this aimless sputtering, you think perhaps it’s of no interest to you… Go, go on then. Don’t read inside me.
This merely, is a pathetic break – a garbage dump of thoughts and feelings, recycled and reused in every way. Getting at the deep crevice of despair, that’s somewhere in the back there …where I can’t find it anymore and it can’t touch me, really.
…who has time for despair anyway? This will have to do. This will have to feed this need for depth, and life and something of the feeling kind – the feelings I’ve lost now for some time.
The world today is flat – precisely coded to the nth degree, separated by semi-colons and commas – delimited to no end. The fear, I think, is logic rules from here on out…
But the heart, it wants to be free, it wants to roam and run and breathe – slowly. It’s saddened to see this golden path, paving its way in beauteous inlays, pockets jingling , light shimmering outside this big window, this jail where we’re all comfortably headed in our company car…
And the soul suffers, while the mind forges ahead and the body lives on… this physicality we’re in, it’s here to stay for years and years to come, chipping away at our youth, our elasticity – these days we wake to that last, alas perhaps too long, but not forever.
We rot a little each day, our bodies, our hearts, our minds, breaking along the way, swaying with the wind that blows us closer to our grave. The colors of the leaves turn, and so does our skin, our hair, our lips become less sweet, they find more tears among their creases and less strangers find their touch, if they should meet.
There isn’t much to see here, just a song of the tired heart… and the slight sadness with which one can’t help but disappoint our mother tongue. This tool we have with which to say… anything and everything, but when it counts most – nothing comes.