Listless and melancholy. Absorbed in otherwise mundane tasks consuming too much time. Afraid of change yet desperately seeking it nonetheless. Lonely without being alone. Crying in the emptiness of time forever lost to me. Yesterdays breeding lamentations, todays overflowing with heartache, and tomorrows forever betraying life with promises unfulfilled. Existing without touching the world or being touched by it. Hopeless repetition. Thoughts locked away in dungeons of professionalism. Mired in ruts of survival. Dreams undreamt, dashed against the rocky shores of oceanic desolation. Parched lips of mind and soul eternally unable to quench my thirst for living. Tormented by sorrows deep. Regrets springing forth at every turn. A cacophony of demands inundating me from all directions. Still, I disregard that which is most important and allow myself to linger in this place.
How long have I languished here? What joy has escaped my grasp at the behest of others? Wallowing in the squalor of self-betrayal and monotonous excuses, what have I gained other than loss? What have I sacrificed?
Supping at the table of corporate America filled my pockets, yet 30 pieces of silver betray perfidy of my soul now crying in the emptiness. I am transformed into a vast wasteland of financial stability paid for with my spirit self.
My tears have washed the path for moneychangers riding high on the backs of we the people. My blood has spilled in a thousand battles waged by capitalism. The immeasurable futility of it all weights heavily upon me now.
Awash in the afterglow of passions depth and breadth and violent revelation, standing upon the shore of infinity with life’s waves rhythmically crashing at my feet, contemplation of what might have been and what should be unfold in my mind. Only now am I able to see the roaming that awaits me. It remains unclear and uncharted, the epitome of promise and chance.
Only the journey matters when the destination is always the same. What experiences and accomplishments lay before me? It is my greatest joy knowing that only one step at a time can reveal those answers.
I feign not to comprehend how life will unfold for me. Deception itself would claim that I am not at least minimally fearful about what is to come. Without a routine and without employment, how can I possibly survive and provide for The Kids? Is success the unspoken promise of my writing? Or disappointment and rejection?
Doubt’s fog and shadow conspire with the absence of strategy to blind me. I will not be so easily dissuaded.