You can't figure it out; it is beyond your grasp of what is possible. You can't get over that churning, that suction, those tip-tap memories on your shoulder causing you to swivel your neck and look at what is behind you. You can't do this and you don't know that and you missed this and you failed that and you are in a perpetual state of seeking to fix things with the illumination that will supposedly arrive in the morning colors to paint you with the energy and drive you desire to face the damage that you have inflicted upon the timeline of your selfish life.
And maybe, hopefully, that vibrant morning will bathe us in a spectral curve of renewal shine as it makes the roosters crow and the plants unfold and the drivers squint and the pious repent again. And maybe if that were to unfold before our eyes, our collective human eyes, I would stop my squandering of life, my wasting of gifts, my slothful apologies and recompensations and watery overtures of improvement. In that splashing of hues I might connect the part of my form that lacks applied emotions in positive progress to that frisky nerve that heralds change with an energetic spring to complete the task that moment, and soothe it with the serotonin gland that has no time for hindsight's woes, or worry, or lanquid bemoaning, or dull solemnity, or disgustful ennui.
What will transform in that reconstructed viewpoint? Will I glow? Will I radiate? Will I even understand that I've corrected this misdirected, erratic-blink streetlight that I've been sitting and watching for the green orb of change? Will it be a refreshing splash, a dull click like a lock, a slam of a gavel's decision, a captured tear of an impression like the disenchanted understanding that these two lovers are no longer together? Will it be grim words that unveil themselves to strangers in recriminations and questions and rhetorical inquiries?
Willing, will it?, willpower, the final Will.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
heavy man. i like it ...juliette
Post a Comment