I want to apologize to the wind and the rain and the small child that resides inside me. I seek a calm that will not come. I suffer from a restless mind and a damaged heart.
The other day, I envied the glassy, placid river. So smooth, like I could have walked right off the end of the dock across the top of it and been supported.
I have finally been released from prison and I’m already anxious to enter the next one. And I can’t tell if that sentiment pertains to work, or to love.
Is there joy in despair? Is there profit in despondency?
They say, “You should find work that you love.” But the work that I love I suffer at great costs.
The muse, my warden, my executioner, I might notice the axe in her hands, if I wasn’t so distracted by her bare breasts. To think that I could make such a beautiful creature mine. Ha!
I continue committing more crimes, knowing that my only true home is a jail cell. And the only true moments are those that don’t involve paying or watching or sitting, but rather are filled engaging in anything anywhere else.
How many ways do you have to try killing yourself before you simply transform?
I don’t have to remain a prisoner, I do have that choice. No prison guards accompany me, I willfully move myself between routines; my cell, my three meals, my time outside in the yard. I could cut myself free at any time. Why is it that I stay? To whom or what am I bound? Or beholden?
And where went ignorance? Man, I miss ignorance. And naiveties. I miss naiveties too. There used to be so much innocence. So much innocence. And then the world interfered. It got in the way.
The only common denominator through everything, through innocence and our cold, hard lives is a capacity for hurt. We can be hurt and we can cause hurt at every level of our lives, and across every generation. Hurt does not discriminate. Hurt extends to all, and across all borders.
Is hurt a capacity? Or a capability? Or is that the variable? That it could be either one? Or both?