Deflation

Here, another mildewed overture on a wallowed chair. Sometimes I wonder of the lengths we go to establish our own reason. I think about it often, but surely, there is prophecy in every spent moment, forward or back. Right?

Maybe I'm getting older. Or that might only be the easy explanation, maybe it's these pensive moments that expose my lust and lacks: a lack-luster momentum and a penchant for both appetite and laze. More often than ever I feel like I exist in a bowling-ball rut. So shortly after sprinting, the fatigue envelopes me to sit and wait for sorting.

And no matter that it is today and today's end is fast approaching. It always seems this way, an everlasting waiting and wanting. Next is always more important unless it's now. And then that's over.

So next I ski the alps. Next I see the world. Someday I carve out my career, fund love, and find place. Somedays, life just feels like a pointed series of escalating dares.

Heartbeats

Why do words always fail me when I need them most? When life seems like it's on tumble-dry-low, it all seems to falter on the tongue.

The places that have held me solid dissolve behind me as the loves I hold so dear slip sideways.

And what is happiness, if not a slumber? For all I have had, has been but a waking dream.

Slung like an Eephus

Lives like snowflakes whisper as they slide through wistful daydreams --culled sharply by a terse reminder that there are things to do, forever and always. I think there is something to be said here about hesitation, and to not hesitate; today is as free as you or I allow it to be. Cut slack and let the dang thing fly.

When I say I'm going to go and do things in incredible places, this time I really mean it. Like the river of flakes slung down towards this earthly reservoir, it all just seems to flow nowadays. One live into another, each meander a syllable in one long beautiful sentence. That's all we can ever really hope for I'd reckon anyhow. Anything longer should probably be edited down.

Darting Dreams

I've often dreamt myself.

And more than anyone else, I've dreamt myself the artist. Finely tuned perplexities in person and place, vocalized in a gambit of heart.

Yet these days when my emotions seem closer and realer than ever, microscope tuned to the beat of the heart and not the days that carry it, the emotions are blurry and the feelings too quick to consider. I can't ever tell what makes me happy or sad. I am empowered and defeated, a gluttony of skimmed thoughts and feelings and a hodgepodge of porridgy wants.

This is the truth of that: I have often dreamt myself different. But I am the indecision and the indirection. I am the uncommitted that rolls with the punches, every punch but his own. There is no one song to sing, and this voice, this voice that always sounds out of tune and out of touch, is just that. And in that, finally, is my persisting essence of undefined labor and love.

It is what it is.