End of Year 33...
Well, this is late, and as usual, I feel bad about that. The truth is, Dear Readers (and there are few these days,) Livejournal is not the happening place that it used to be. I could talk for hours about the technology boom and how I have been dealing with it. I won't. That's entirely another story, and I will leave it for another time. Perhaps, someday we will sit in some corner cafe and sip coffee, and I can tell you stories. Perhaps...
Ah, wishes...
On a disturbingly mild night in January, I watch the moon drift across the sky. There's no snow here in downtown Lansing. Not a bit. There hasn't really been much so far, maybe a couple inches total this winter, and that makes things strange to a guy who has spent his winters waist-deep (at least) in snow. I feel sluggish and undermotivated, and I feel like time is just rushing, rushing, rushing, and I wonder sometimes where it intends to rush to so fast. Time is flying for me, you see, and I feel like I have missed a lot of things that I was "supposed" to do along the way.
I spend my days working, and the time that I am not at work, I spend on the computer mindlessly tapping or watching TV. I cook when the whim takes me, but it is hard to muster up the interest to cook most of the time. Everything feels grey. Everything feels somehow worn.
Cheyenne has been wonderful to me, and continues to be a lighthouse in the fog of this place, this time. It's good to have someone close, someone to share things with, someone to hold when the midwinter storms (only metaphorically, I assure you) get ferocious and the sun seems so far away.
I grow distant. I grow impatient.
I grow old.
What else is there to say?
I can't write the poetry tonight, and I fear that you don't have the time or inclination to read it if I did muster up the words.
I'm lonely, and I feel like I have made a lot of poor choices.
This place doesn't feel like home, but, it never really did. Sometimes, when I walk along the river, I feel like a ghost. Much of my life, I have felt like a ghost, but never this deeply. like I somehow don't exist, and that I would give so very much
if you would only hear me speak.
The hour is late.
The year is swiftly flowing like deep, dark water under the shifting restless ice.
I stand on the edge of a shallow river and I wonder why things are so difficult. At least I have a hand to hold as I stand. At least I know I am not completely alone.
The moon disappears behind the thin clouds; traffic streaks along the freeway to anywhere else.
The wind whispers on dry golden grasses.
I guess that's not an unacceptable lullaby.
Is it?
End of Year Thirty-Three.
Ah, wishes...
On a disturbingly mild night in January, I watch the moon drift across the sky. There's no snow here in downtown Lansing. Not a bit. There hasn't really been much so far, maybe a couple inches total this winter, and that makes things strange to a guy who has spent his winters waist-deep (at least) in snow. I feel sluggish and undermotivated, and I feel like time is just rushing, rushing, rushing, and I wonder sometimes where it intends to rush to so fast. Time is flying for me, you see, and I feel like I have missed a lot of things that I was "supposed" to do along the way.
I spend my days working, and the time that I am not at work, I spend on the computer mindlessly tapping or watching TV. I cook when the whim takes me, but it is hard to muster up the interest to cook most of the time. Everything feels grey. Everything feels somehow worn.
Cheyenne has been wonderful to me, and continues to be a lighthouse in the fog of this place, this time. It's good to have someone close, someone to share things with, someone to hold when the midwinter storms (only metaphorically, I assure you) get ferocious and the sun seems so far away.
I grow distant. I grow impatient.
I grow old.
What else is there to say?
I can't write the poetry tonight, and I fear that you don't have the time or inclination to read it if I did muster up the words.
I'm lonely, and I feel like I have made a lot of poor choices.
This place doesn't feel like home, but, it never really did. Sometimes, when I walk along the river, I feel like a ghost. Much of my life, I have felt like a ghost, but never this deeply. like I somehow don't exist, and that I would give so very much
if you would only hear me speak.
The hour is late.
The year is swiftly flowing like deep, dark water under the shifting restless ice.
I stand on the edge of a shallow river and I wonder why things are so difficult. At least I have a hand to hold as I stand. At least I know I am not completely alone.
The moon disappears behind the thin clouds; traffic streaks along the freeway to anywhere else.
The wind whispers on dry golden grasses.
I guess that's not an unacceptable lullaby.
Is it?
End of Year Thirty-Three.