Losses vex my job.  Three employees today, or thereabouts, found themselves without employment.

Where do you think that weight will fall?

You guessed it.

My need to escape that murderous paddock grows by leaps and bounds with each passing moment.

Hell, my need to escape it all likewise grows, from urban hell and professional suffering to literary languishing and creative comatose.

Too many faces seem familiar too much of the time.  Too many ruts hold steady to my feet as I try to walk a different path.

I stand dressed in the robes of a fake.  Driving to work each day resembles the journey of a thief stealing away my time.  The attrition of what matters under the weight of survival feels like so much unnecessary fodder bound to my weary soul.

It must stop.

Like so many times before, countless gestures meant to convince me of what is needed, I say again: What I do here must change.  What I do—period—must change.

The time has come to leave this blog to its fate.  That means far less material.

The time has come to leave this city to its fate.  That means getting the hell out of Dodge before it consumes me.

The time has come to focus on what matters.  That means familiars, writing, nature.  That means leaving behind all that has chained me to senseless piddling.

Sure, I hoped that one or two of our team at work would find their way to the unemployment line.  Sure, I hoped my spirit could bleed its essence into off-line and on-line writing.  Sure, I hoped I could snap photos of everything that caught my eye, and I could share that visual splendor with others.

Sure, I hoped I could win the lottery.

Anyway.

Remember when the writing mattered?  Remember when I cared about what I posted rather than who might read it?

Sometimes I wonder if I do.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve lost myself in this menagerie of mayhem called “The Internet.”

Sometimes I wonder. . .

Anyway.

Times they are a’changin’.  I want and need them to do just that.

So let’s be honest: The time has come to move, to get out of Dallas, to get away from the urban plague.  The time has come to focus on what matters.  The time has come to stop wishing for the curse to end.  The time has come to stop—period.

I find myself here:

Sans imaginations and their tendrils of thought, the annals of history’s history now bewilders us with darkness foretold.

Long shall nightmares visit upon us tales beyond that pretended in our most ghoulish visions.  Sup at the board of cataclysm, we will, for universes unfold in mayhem and yearning, in order and disgust.

Speak of yarns unfathomable and weep for the untold truth, for nary a shadow compares with such lightlessness.

Mine eyes set upon black vistas, my heart upon wretched stillness.

And so the time has come. . .

I am out of town this weekend.  What might appear here should be measured in that statement.

The blogroll must suffer the butcher’s cut.

Posts can never be the same again, can never be the empty promises made of garbage and tossed to the masses.

Life should never be this cursed.