Good ol' Jack
Sometimes I feel like I have this really special talent of making myself feel completely and utterly miserable. It's like I take a jackhammer to my tattered and lonely shack on the beach and instead of the beautiful new house at the end like Life as House, it's merely just a big hole in the wall, or hole in the roof, or broken window. No Hollywood add in music, or touching dances by the sea, or warm embraces, nothing but holes. Not to say that holes are completely bad. I mean every once and a while, I really appreciate the view of the sunset. Granted, I could go outside, but it's all the more to foster that ever-growing sense of laziness. Even the hurricanes aren't that bad. Sure, there's lots of water everywhere and wind that whips through every chink, every hole, yet somehow, that shack always stands up. The only thing that really tears it down is myself.
I suppose I could just put the jackhammer down, or toss it into the sea. But somehow I feel like the jackhammer is just an extension of myself, an ugly hard part of myself that I can't just toss out to sea or forget about in some dark corner. I lug it around, break a few toes. Of course with the broken toes, I limp around mostly.
You know, maybe it isn't a jackhammer at all. Maybe I just like to say jackhammer because it sounds foreign and distant from myself. Like I can always blame it on good ol' Jack. I'd say, "It's his fault you know. Tearing that house down like a maniac, like he has nothing better to do than to constant rip it down to nothing." I think really it's my own fists that punch holes through the walls. My own hands that rip the boards down. My own fingers that quietly bandage all battle scars, cover them up in clean cloth to hide the blood.
I suppose I could just put the jackhammer down, or toss it into the sea. But somehow I feel like the jackhammer is just an extension of myself, an ugly hard part of myself that I can't just toss out to sea or forget about in some dark corner. I lug it around, break a few toes. Of course with the broken toes, I limp around mostly.
You know, maybe it isn't a jackhammer at all. Maybe I just like to say jackhammer because it sounds foreign and distant from myself. Like I can always blame it on good ol' Jack. I'd say, "It's his fault you know. Tearing that house down like a maniac, like he has nothing better to do than to constant rip it down to nothing." I think really it's my own fists that punch holes through the walls. My own hands that rip the boards down. My own fingers that quietly bandage all battle scars, cover them up in clean cloth to hide the blood.