Shady Streets

Ride bikes and hold grudges in search of meandering truths. Wear flannel and corduroy and pretend like it's unimportant. But it is.

I am steeping in memories and aiming for every forsaken curb and avenue. I am wading in protoplasmic goop and all I know is that it really is over and, actually, it really wasn't that terrific.

To my horror, my life is prescribed by my own penumbral choices and everyone else's. Frankly that is too much for the listless and uncharismatic.

Gasp

All of my words have been so bitter and broken. And then I compensate: I exude when I'm not exuberant; I spin hopeful positives to assuage. But just because I believe them does not mean I feel them.

It is a battle. A battle to fight, and nothing I say or do or imagine is going to change or hide that. I refuse to pretend I'm not uneasy. I am depressed. I am lonely. I am unhappy. I am between empty worlds, pondering lives and places unlikely and extreme. I want to run. I want to jump and dive and walk and prance and fly. I want to soar!

I want to escape numbness and nausea. I want to stop finding empty nooks to corporate, which is all I ever do, which is all I've ever done.

I want my life! Whatever, wherever, however, whoever, (whenever?), that might be. I want my life!

I can be happy. I knew that already though, right? I can be happy. But I already knew that.