I write this blog entry to myself. You may follow along if you like ... but I ask you not to.
I walk beside Sisyphus. I carry a small pack on my back. I feel the weight of years and extra calories on my bones.
I am not yet old yet I am too old to remember what I wanted to forget about rhymes and turns of phrases in the words that flood my thoughts.
The universe of possibilities before me and ... too much repetition in this tired body in this moment ...
Some days new is no longer new. The spinning wheels creak too loud, reminding me of days and months and years of cycles I suddenly remember all at once. Quiet, please!
The aches and pains in a runner's memories - the black toes, the pulled muscles, the joints rubbed raw and the blown arches - cry out and ask me what I'm doing in a path around the neighbourhood.
I am who I am, these cells that come and go without my notice, the creatures I carry with me hidden, states of energy temporarily floating together in this odd me/not-me juxtaposition.
In my thoughts where are the happy moments I used to call my own?
I am alive but do I live? I live but am I alive?
I can arrange words and memorise others' groups of words but I am wordless.
Breathless.
Some days are like this, a dry oasis in a field of plenty.
A rock in a river, watching the vitality of others streaming past.
A day like this passes by, the comparison of time in words like "quickly" or "slowly" incomprehensible.
A hindrance to the progress of society? Perhaps. A vital contribution? In these words ... maybe. [Must I always find a reason to pump me up when I feel deflated?]
The line in the script where Parnassus says something about "no more decisions" adds more weight to the backpack.
Saturated in history, seeing the "yes" or the "no" answering the "what if" over and over again ...
Always carrying the set of ideal friends and family in my thoughts to whom I present my decisive answers.
Why do I hear no music right now? Why the silence, except for the constant ringing in my "ears"?
No seeking, no finding, no being, no lasting.
Jeff Gordon and Munster had something in common in this most recent weekend, did they not? Mayweather and Woods at different points in their successful careers.
Quiet? Please!
Silence - time to dream. Time to wander with my old friends in places that do not exist except in nervous system pathways - ordinary-looking streets in unfamiliar cities, boats on unchartered waterways, spaceships circling no-longer-[how we define]lifeless planets.
Proud to be an amateur on a world of professionals - no debonair or dilettante attitude here. Equipped only with a smile, a propensity to type words, and an exerciseless day filled with eating whatever comes my way.
Tired. Less tired than most. More tired than some. Fortunate, fortuitous and fortenbrass.
As many have noted before, when one pursues not one's dreams but when one dreams, then what is left of the waking world but to fill one's dreams?
I ask you, Humour, where is the cheap laugh you provide me on my darkest days? Do I only live to serenade a Muse, after all?
I am my own god, gods, goddesses and board of advisors. Today, I bore myself. Perhaps that's all there is in this moment - fear of being uninteresting. Unentertaining. Not measuring up to my self-inflated top billing on the marquee in my thoughts. Unable to get a laugh out of my internal audience members who are too apathetic to bother to boo.
To bed! Shh... Quiet and a comfy pillow for peaceful dreams tonight.
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