mired in the marrow of my well aint that funny bone.
i wish that letting go could be just that, a definite sort of release. dropping something and not picking it up, concrete. it isn't anything like that, is it? it's deciding this day, today, you will let it go, you will walk away, let it fall and not bounce. the sun is out, the music is loud, the trees are shading us just right, we can't stop singing, dancing, loving, and look at you, you've let it go. you're smiling, triumphant, you are sure this is it, you've made it gone. and then a new day breaks and your bones are heavy, rearranged, with the weight of your turbulent mind when left to its own subconcious, unforgiving devices. if there was something, a service you could pay for, eternal sunshine-style, that kept select people out of your dreams, you would pay a substantial amount, you think. you're sick from it, this daily half-release you've tricked yourself over and over again into believing. it's harder because you are trying to let go of something that never truly began, how do you let go of potential? you had given up, grown up, manned up, you were ready, you were maybe actually ready. and then, the startling halt, and you are without wind without words, no good. it's all you, you decide, let it go, let it go, it was all your construction in the first place. it's harder because it wasn't. it wasn't at all. and you know it, especially now. what is it, this it? the something that was never realized, capitalized. you can barely remember. it's waiting there still, somehow. half-hearted, weak-kneed. it's late and you're exhausted, empty and brimming, let it go let it go let it go, go, go.