come some slipping down time tick kicking my mind with tipping tock bind to little brittle life grime says to me, "get on the ball with your crackle of fall crumpled up memory, small no more puttings in there, doll." too much slice of that there holds me from my large all locks me in duty square slugs me with my all no ground, fly and do no hush, rush to get done so much, counting on you time not only doesn't wait it pulls sinews like taffy, strings hopes to a line where they stiffen and start to smell moldy
I’m haunted by the ghost of my inner me. In the wee small hours of the morning, when there’s no one to tell you to get your ass to bed, a virus takes hold and strangles your brain. Schedules, routines – such mundane and tedious stalwarts of responsibility. Can anyone relate when I write – sometimes we just don’t want what we need. We just don’t want them so badly that we reject them like the plague and grasp at other worlds of adventure like, “What’s in the fridge?” and “what’s the lyrics of that song in my head?”
Perhaps this is what becomes of not bearing children and maturing into older years having only ever concerned myself with the needs of another adult. Caring for myself not as a person who must go on for the rearing and survival of a small brood, but as a semi-independent partner. When the chips are down and sleep is essential, I have some kind of alter-ego that whips into action and stirs my brain, revs my sluggishness, and prevents a restful nature. It’s almost as if there’s a war and some part of me is fighting, but against whom or what – and even if my ghost wins I lose.
The road will tell me why. Here’s praying that caffeine and a direction will sane me up.
**Note to my faithful followers – it’s been so long. I have hope for the future of my writing after a couple of co-workers unknowingly talked an “intervention” my way today. Stress. Homesickness. Heartache. Upsidedowness. But I can see the saddle; it’s in my cross hairs. I’m going to get back in it. Please stick with me.