These Writings
To the outside reader extraordinaire, when will these writings not seem as a twisty bitching, a "nothing-there", one day, twisting into the cold??
For where is the refinement, on another darkened night? Where goes the rider, on another turning landscape? (Like the title of this tome, these times; this is just kids stuff)
...I drove out again, into the flatlands of Canada, by myself. Out there is single headlights, of endless possibilities stretching to the horizon. A new country, of new times. A distant possibility, as the day grows dark.
I rode out there alone, again, to turn off a befuddled mind. It gets old, and I oft wonder why I cannot convince Teresa to join me. (why would she rather stick at home, if/to only muddle away on the TV). I stumbled on to a park on a bank, watching a 90's band pretend to still be young, by playing old Alanis Morisette tunes, trying to ignore their grey hairs, as the day fade.
We bitch because we love...because sometimes the processing is slow. (Its lonely sometimes, but we press on
In fear: what does this near future hold?