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Tuesday, December 7, 2010

camping in the same clothes for how long?


I tell myself a million times over, I will worry about it in the morning. I have always been a liar at night. I hold permanent a spot upon a hill, where all I do is sit and watch. I see all these possibilities being snatched up quickly and whisked away. It's always busy traffic. People constantly striding from both directions and carrying away the things I like to sit and stare at. Much too soon it will be a wasteland, my mind a landfill of possibilities untouched, dead and dying. I guess it can be exceptionally stupid to pin things up on the future board. To set burdens on future shelves to be dealt with later. When I venture in that direction, all I will see for myself is a yard sale project. Expired ideas. Dusty dreams. Cloudy thoughts. Broken sentences. Femished friendships. Lonely avenues. Useless to be sold at little or nothing to their tremendous worth. If success were to welcome the present, the present would need to have an emergency bowtie. A constant kettle on the stove. Fully stocked beverage. Of course these things are not prepared, because someone is not so busy sitting on a hill in a bit of a daze. A soft panic developing at the core, and radiating in seismic waves throughout the inside, lost on it's way to the surface. There I sit, a paralisys panic, a doubtful stock, a cowardly investment. Each rock, blade of grass and speck of dirt on which I routinely dwell is a hope and a desire. It is the ground upon which I pace. The same old scenes envelop. The day to day to day. The ever unimaginable concept that tomorrow is today, today is tomorrow, the future is now, the now is passing, the past is gone, the time is relentless in it's shuffle past. All the time. Every day. Every tomorrow. Every night as I lay down. The back and forth and never forward motion kicks up a lot of dust. I cough and I choke and I lose sight. There is no tower clock or town bell ringing to signify that it's my time to walk down and snatch what's left. But the beat of my heart pounds louder and my itching feet ask me, Are you ever going to tumble on down the hill? Break your bones? Break your heart? They have things for that in the possibility trade, down there at the market. Grab the money you don't have, and go.

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