With time more and more sinks in and lesser stays afloat. He is blaring at the top of his lungs. Sounds like a graduate level classroom and here I sit on the stairs and contemplate x, y and glorious z.
The blood in my veins is blue with filth and lethargy and I feel it suck the warmth out of my skin. It might just be that I am under-dressed for the day yet again, even though the 30% chance of precipitation made me grab my umbrella as I walked out this morning. It is a joke because I have done nothing but carry the weight of it throughout the day, with no chance to ever glide under it.
Too many umbrellas for no rainy days is an imbalance I’m sure nobody prefers. There are moments when doubt fills my left brain while answers fill the right. The divide is not much of a haze I had expected it to be and my state is either stuck or certain. I am tempted to ask where I went wrong but before I can even finish reading out that question to myself a little voice jumps in with a placard that says EVERYWHERE in bold and red. It’s quite a sorry sight. I then wonder if there is anything I could have done otherwise and the same little voice seems to disappear. It stays like that for a long time of emptiness in which the bullet of my brain is nothing but a blank. It then says NO.
Life has a strange way to it. Some people say what happens is for the best but in the puddles of our immediate present it is hard to see the best of the best, no matter how hard you try. I would like to say that I have won this war, but I don’t think I ever entered it to fight. I don’t think I was ever the warrior. Just a spectator or maybe someone in the back row who was trying to learn the ways to strike back and defend what you have deemed worthy in your life.
I fear losing my soul and never feeling alive again. Something tells me it is just my shaky, tired hand that is sinking me down in the crevice of it’s weariness. I have to admit I am quite tired. Drained to be exact. At point zero. I hold my hand up high and it shakes. Ironically the blue nail paint suits the veiny hand pretty well. The ring I like happens to be a perfect match too. It is far too beautiful and aqua clear for a hand that is literally dead and feeding off it’s own self.
I am like those bulletin posts. They have so many staples left in their logs. All those fliers, and all those years of displaying and falling for bait. All that time spent trying and trying to promote events, ideas, faiths and purposes. On a windy day, all those papers will fly away, and what remains is a solid wooden post. It is standing, but it has a million holes. As if death came to it from the inside out.