Winter.
I feel, the blues, coming on.
I mean; they’re already here.
Been here. Been had. Might could. And then?
To be had is every nightmare’s dream. To become something greater than one ever hoped to be – the unattainable quotient. Something is not adding up. All of this is temporal matter. It’s not grey it’s gray. It’s seatttle city skies. It’s chaples and steeple chases. It’s the heaviness of the clouds, pressing down with pressure. Pressuring down on pipes. And they burst. Like writers’ tears, pipes burst with direct pressure applied.
This is the generative season. This is the time to let all the bad feelings come to the surface –
To let them float through your pores, through those ducts, out the nasal cavities –
Or risk certain doom. A fate worse than parted looms. A something like a fruit of the loom. I’m frustrated. Ok. You ready to get real?
I fear that my ptsd will keep me down forever.
I fear that I’ll never live up to an unidealistic sense of self. Or something. But.
This is something I’ve been writing about for a long time. At night I can’t sleep, I toss and turn.
Four pictures hang from corners of walls and I wonder when it will all fall into place. I mean, coalesce. I wonder when the lits will dim. The lights will limb. The limbs will be light. Or something.
And I used to cry red rivers at dusk, then write about them over white piles of powder.
And now I shovel my feet through the snow, higher than Everest, spirits lower than the Marianas.
Mike, Lou and Grogg. Prometheus And Bob. The angry beavers. Kablaam. All that. 90s Nick.
Earl Sweatshirt.
I’m at this weird place in my life. The home stretch of winter. It’s unbearable. I put my trust in God. And lately I’ve felt like a fraud. A fraud. A fraud. Doubt? Or something. Is therapy hurting more than help? Or would I be doomed without it? See,
I’m challenging the longstanding habits and ways of thinking in my life that keep me static like shock. Stuck in place like Shaq Diesel with a Sheriffs badge. Plow. Snow plow. I’m so sick of snow and I am tired of hiding from myself within myself of the self of the self. And I wish I could just find release, but I’m not allowed. I’m not allowed. I have to wait. Just wait. Wait. And?
We’re all gonna die soon anyway. It’s a matter of time. It’ll get worse before it gets better. And it won’t get better until the next life. And that’s hard to keep sight of. It’s not easy to live as we do, where and when we do, surrounded by what we are. And I wish it were easier, but heaven isn’t gotten to by way of ease. Heaven is the ease for which we struggle. Suffer. Something.
Something’s gotta give, I’m not sure what’s going on. But I just feel off. Not sleeping well, terrible mattress. New living situation, not sure what is next. Car is done. Need a new one. All these changes came all at once. It hurts, sucks, I admit, that I’m not prepared. But life is such a thing that you’ll never be prepared all the way. Just put your feet forward and try to do your best to accept it. And I’m trying. To accept, to stay submitted. Its’ not easy, but the road to hell is paved with ease. Glitters and gloss, standing on corners. At bus stops. Puffing on phreaked black and milds. Beanie tucked low over the eyes, casting a shadow over the cheekbones. Obscure. Anonymous. Poor. Waiting to die, just like the rich. But closer to it. Closer still. Close enough yet?
Close.