Oh Black Water, Do What You Want
Oh boy, will we one day ever know the why of it? The what happened and when of it? I know one day the world will lose me like you did, and I'll slip up the side of some green North Carolina mountain with a million strains of folk and bluegrass and blues ruling my emotions, I'll wear suspenders and carry candy cigarettes and an old worn five-dollar guitar by my side until I, too, can play the uncompromising melodies of authenticity and true feeling. In the meantime, the slow barn-raising of my education has hoisted the framework of psychological strategies, harsh cognitive-restructuring confrontations set in reality on all sides, and the sturdy woodwork screams at me, "What can you possibly expect? What is it, exactly, that you want by this point? What could be said? What words would you even want to hear?" I tip my ear to the advice of jilted gods coaxed down to the mess of mortals--the gods that seethe for harlequin-green revenge, for too-late worship that they can backhand with vengeance, denying forgiveness, all bloodthirsty and scorned--but it seems all my carefully constructed indifference has finally taken hold, and I have no lust for the retribution they crave. So I let go and watch the apathetic driftaway motion, and the only thing I'm still holding onto is a single string wondering if it will ever come back tied to the resolution of explanation. Since I doubt this will happen, I tie the string to the dock by the river, and wander away.