Post-Tramatic Rest

No matter how far I've come, I feel that there is is still further to go. Go back, go forward, go down. 

I scroll back: where is the beginning of my memories? Are they apart of this? Or merely a favourable sequence of colours that go streaming through my sub-conscious? Do they pull from pasts before me, or are they created in the moment out of cognisant possibility? What is possible? I can never be certain, I am not still chasing a mirage, a place of caged apathy that helps me control the lack of control we have - over everything.

If desire is truly the root of suffering how can one continue tin ideal passiveness despite the crushing certainty of being asked to be partial again?

I feel so deeply.

Stories cut me, others cuts through me. I can feel the tepid waters of idleness that hug those around me while I wonder what I am doing here. Wonder, perpetually, if I am not a point making machine in a temporal world of absurdity. So desperate to find a cause for this disgusting display of cranky tears that fall, at the opening of every refrigerator door, that I would give the sun and moon and stars eyes and arms and call them friends. Or worse yet, dare to call them a metaphor for this.

I feel a joke coming on and I am laughing at my own expense.

I have been inundated with detail for too long. I have lost the ability to remember where I stand, or where I am to go again. I am lost, awash in things I have seen again and again and again, moments upon moments, place after place. Awash in lethargy, a more comfortable request is to rest indoors, then to spend the energy needed to grate this brain against the grain of everything. Judgeless judgment is what I have mastered. See them, hate them, love them, it matters still and it matters not. I will continue in gulps. I will continue to reach out, but more slowly now, as my restlessness begins to rest; flaccid cool-aid acid test.

Still so much time and so little. A pick me up here and there,  while still wondering what am I seeing? Visions of similarity? Or just my own reflection? A perpetual narcissist maybe it's just seeing my own ideals, in the eyes of everyone. Do I need to feel less alone so badly that I would add God to coincidence? Meaning to randomness? I can't sing or play guitar, but I still feel like a genius every time a mediocre song comes bursting through my lips; only to be crushed in the light of day that is repetition. I know I am small, but I feel so big in these little pants, pulling at rolls of fat which marshmallow around my bones. What right do my indulgences have to hang on, exposing me, my weakness; undercontrol.

All the days now begin to blend, who will remember them all when they fade from view? When my spirit leaves the mind and memories it has entered? When it runs off the streets in a midnight street sweeping, reflective yellow and green jackets, coming down hard with their machines, to wash it all away. What will Europe be without me? Me without it? What infinite thread can I tie my heart to hard enough, that it will pull it out and carry it on, across the universe? I don't need to beat anymore, if the beat goes on.

Is there energy in torn shoes on a desolate highway? Bulgaria, Romania, Hungry, Croatia. These exotic words fumble around in my mouth like superheated marbles, looking for a drink to cool the burn. I want to know how they taste on each part of my tongue; bitter, sweet, sour. I can sit for days on a bus or train. I can believe in fate and hold out a thumb. I can know every road as I know myself. I can. I can. But do you promise, can you promise me that the time will come, when the road rises up to greet me and brings with it - the direction home?

Clickity clack. The beat goes on. Yadda yadda yadda ya, the beat goes on.

Three steps ahead of myself to jump out of this open window. Lets head for the dessert. Feel its breeze. These tired legs can't hold me here much longer. We will have to go again and differently again.

Sigh...

Ah modesty.

Ah moderation.

What do you look like? All I see is you fading, a discolored balloon in the distance on the road of all the way.  All the way. It's painted in my eyes. It is all I know. All I breath and it reminds me, it's never enough. I know I am more than even my greatest fantasy. My greatest whim or desire. I know it is about residing in nothingness and beingness. . .

I'm working on it

Either way thank you for today. For these words that bring instant pride. For letting me get through another dangerous teetering cliff of depression and misanthropy. I see you little forgiver. I see your sly castle. Even if I don't want to believe in you I see you and the grace in your wisdom. I will let this mess rest, and wait for it to continue to pull me through.

Thank you for today.