Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Desperation is a fool's fuel.


Every moment in which we find ourselves is a culmination of our entirety leading up to that moment. Every second we are here-now is an end upon which to stand and look back at the paths and means and decide for ourselves whether or not it's all justified. I am only in Greensboro, NC, all of me, forever, I am only a sad quiet boy sitting on a curb writing drowsily in a yellow notebook with a green pen, my red lighter matching my red sunglasses, my shoes matching my state of being; torn, ragged, blue, ready to be cast into the ocean. If a life of mistakes has led up to this peaceful doldrum, to this Greensboro cigarette and these dirty shaky hands, this calm acceptance of relatively fortuitous though destitute lots, I dare to consider for just a shivering moment to where all the other paths would have led me, and I of course decide it's irrelevant, hung though I may be from a gallows of my own making, from heartsick rope woven of my own devices.

I'm desperately trying to find a reason for calling only couches, gas stations, and highways my home, to be reminded why I've gone without so much for so long, to feel that righteous retribution granted by the Fates and Muses, but there is a loneliness arching over my head that has obscured the mountains and stars. I'm screaming day and night into a shoebox, hearing my echo returned flat, hollow, muted. So many pairs of ears begging to bleed at my behest, save the pair that will not listen, will never listen, the one pair from which I wish to dab the clots, to bandage and kiss and into which I would give up all of the rest just to whisper one more promise, one I would never feign to break as all the others before, a promise silent as a prayer and thunderous as earthquakes and churches collapsing and the world shaking itself apart from the epicenter of the bedrooms of angels, and I'd gladly forget that I ever solitarily considered myself whole as all I hear is the settling dust of Armageddon and a silent night and the tinkling of bells.

There is something completely wrong with the way I've resigned myself to the swallowing ocean, to the night that I could just as easily hide behind my eyelids and sleep away until day breaks with clarity and birdsongs, and find I'd been a bird all along, and that my wings were never clipped by anyone's hands but my own. Desperation is a fool's fuel, but I have nothing left to burn.

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