It is quite a thing when a task feels simultaneously foreign and natural. To know a sense of belonging whilst still feeling some nakedness upon engagement. Thousands upon thousands of words, derived from some smaller yet still quantitative number of thoughts have occurred in this here spot. And no closer may we be, even after all this travel.
It does not dwell within space or time, this place. Not specifically. Even the tools used have moved around. This journey was taken more four score miles ago and away. And yet, perhaps closer here it may feel. That, or the fog has diluted it enough where the sense of home has become even more malleable than ever before.
All the same, here I, and it, and we all are. Again. A cyclic redundancy, such as the nocturnal visions of romance long turned to dust of what was. And out of habit, I suspect the questions breed more of the same, and little of the antithesis. That, being answers.
Three decades down.
And either way one might behold.
Oh! What a failure I have been!
Not just now, but always. And in all the sorts of ways one could possibly imagine. Nothing amounted to more than the barely Shakespearean equivalent of graduation tassels hanging upon the rearview mirror of some rust bucket from the early 90’s.
All the hopes and self-assurances for naught or not even that much. Crumbled or crumbling flesh wrought from some potential marble slab, whittled down to some limp phallus. A parade of poor habits that arise from some sort of vague unfulfillment of some time no better than now aside from narrative perspective.
Here he stands.
Among what once was thought to be wreckage, but lo, and behold! They be but the spare parts from which something better shall be built. Those shattered preconceptions make not only the armor, but the spear that drives forward, never to waiver the same, or be fooled again.
Three decades down, of however many might come.
To play towards the optimistic- I have not quit. Not yet. Nor do I see myself doing so. Out of practice and slow, sure. And the gusto is nowhere near as easily harvested as was in some other seasons. The springs from which forth I usually emerge, have gained more rust and wear. And the operators are more hesitant than ever.
But weight has not been lifted from my shoulders in such a way, since the last time I sat and click, click, clacked away.
Might be part of the trouble. To believe that some hand other than my own might pull me from the mire. Not that such hands were not or never offered. The opposite might be closer towards the truth. Regularly, in sincerity and strength, are such arms cast in my direction. And not to be rude, I say thank you. And no, thank you. And back into the muddied shore I drive my fingers, knowing still, as of now at least, that the final push from the bog must be my own, or the muck will only overtake, again.
So, thanks be to the unsung help, from relations of all the sorts that occur in my days. For footing is often more crucial than the last shimmy up over the prevailing precipice.
And all this written, as though the woe of the self-saboteur were not the most prominent illness to blame. To feel bad for one’s self, in my amateur and not-to-be-taken-too-seriously opinion, is the most comfortable crutch one might ever adorn upon themselves.
Oh, woe is me! Dear diary, how they plague me, the hero, and make me to be victim. Oh, boo-hoo, it is all wrong, or must be, as I cannot get it right. Oh, woe! Oh, me!
As one cannot claim themself at fault for all things without also thinking themselves all powerful- one cannot claim the always downtrodden soul whilst never allowing to be lifted, be it by themselves or others.
Or so my singular opinion has drummed up in a short amount of time. It is hard to tackle any big ideas when none have been personally tackled for a few short ages. I couldn’t even tell you the last thought I had in this format. Though, I know that I hope it was a poem. Add a little melody to all this wasted musing.