Wow. Just wow. Yanked from Trees' blog.
Tired, but doing okay today. At least I think so. Got to bed relatively on time and was only up a couple of times during the night. Winner for moi.
Thinking of things that may have no place in my life, but might in a different one. Should I? Should I not? Does it matter?
Of course it matters. And I should. Because shouldn't always leaves "what if I had?".
But if I do and it doesn't, then I'm only one more down on a list of Things to Do in Denver Before You're Dead. And if I do and it does, then there's a whole new list. And maybe a whole new list isn't bad, except I know a couple of things that are already on that list, and they're big things.
It's easier to not do.
But not doing is not the way to get things done.
Which begs the question as to whether I really want these things done?
To be or not to be is always true. There is no one right answer, only different paths and different destinations.
Once upon a time, I had a plan. I knew what I wanted to do, wanted to be, doobie doobie doo. Then those plans were rent asunder like evil's buns in an Underdog cartoon. So I made new plans and had new goals, and had those rent asunder as well.
By now I'm in a far different place than I ever thought I would be. I've become somebody that I never wanted to be, and the flavor is distinctly dark and bitter. The things that I want, the flavors that I want are there, but I have to reach for them through thick jellylike fog. I need to go there. I need to find a way. Or more that I know the way, I need to make the move to dry my own socks of woe, and to eviscerate the monster that lives under the stairs like the Tube Fairy.
Monoloith, she strikes with the open palm of words, my own words reflected, twisted like some Lincolnesque orgy of satisfaction. It's a game for which I don't know the rules, the inkwell stains of pigtails long past echoing in the emptiness, dark and dirty smudges of attraction. Hit and run, dazzle with shock and awe, smite thee with the hammer of justice.
Love like a street bomb, careful and deliberate, messy and thrusting, impersonal and ultimately intimate. I cannot justify its existence, yet it threads like a rat-hive in the exhaust of a thousand mass-transportation vehicles, cool and calm. Touched in the darkness.