Sunday, June 26, 2011

In a strange alternate universe, I heard your name today. Feels surreal. Like a moth-eaten, dusty, tome you find at the back of your cupboard while spring cleaning one day. And the memories wash over you like a flood. Almost sparkly, crisp, shocking to numbed senses.

Am I hearing correctly. Did they just mention you. So, so long ago. I've forgotten what it's like trying to forget. It's covered in pits so deep, sealed with earth of ages gone. Fossilised, frozen, does not want to be disturbed. Content to stay unfinished always. That's how some endings go, anyways. They end with commas while your melancholy fills the blank pages.

A friend once said, there is no pressing need. That people meet and part like clouds. But if your paths cross one day, then they cross. If not, there is no pressing need.

Today the pastor said that he hates helplessness, because there was a time in his life in which he felt incredibly helpless. And now the thing he once was, is the thing he hates the most in others.

Probably, there is still some unfinished work I have to do. Some days, I do not know how to drive it to its conclusion. My book lays half-done. The pages scribbled with pencil, then left to dust when the thinking got tougher. The demands got painful. You search for ways to kill your demons. But even the book says the demons will always, always be there. And you have to accept that.



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If these pages chart the times of regret, want, nostalgia... pity even. Then I suppose the infrequency of my writing marks healthfulness and more or less,... happiness?

Saturday, June 25, 2011

The weekdays are beginning to blur together. I track them by my nightly activities, by my daytime meetings. The weekends fly by like a swallow. Gone in a whirl. The months go by. I count them by the paycheques, and the poetry slams. People want so much from this limited time. Asked to commit to many things, asked to consider many things.

I shun responsibility now, baulk at the prospect of commitment. Whoop secretly when I find that I have nothing to do. Or spare time to kill. Life drags on now. Drags my unwilling legs of inertia along. It doesn't wait for anyone. Not even me. I will be 24 soon. And I don't look forward to that. At all.

Some days I feel lost. My legs are mechanically moving, but it isn't thinking. My mouth says all the right words, my brain conjures all the right sums. My heart doesn't know what to feel. What to make of life. I am just doing....





I wish someone would toss me a flyball, high across the field, up, up, up in the air. And I will run my lungs out to save it. As fast as my churning legs would take me, without caring about what's in front of me, just what's in the air. My singular goal. Nothing like that to make me feel free.