In sickness

We appreciate the usefulness of the right words when we face unspeakable circumstances. Can't you feel your brain actually demanding blood from the body as you reach for the combination of ideas to communicate? We witness internal movement and chemistry as we assemble kernels into attempted wholes. The hospital: so much time, such faceless tsunamic emotion, and only the squeak of a nearby door to identify with. We need words to share this, and we have none of enough worth. That's not irony, that is the validation of human experience over vicarious hell.

Despite their darkness, shadows only exist because of light. What a twisted, ill-fated, and common marriage.

Abulia

I am without will to sustain a heavy thought stream, to manage the flow of a current. When we feel the power of flow within us and we do nothing with it but push it away from our center, are we better than a toilet? Ah ha, that old trick--turn my personal flaws into a shared discussion of misery, blame, and commiseration. Weaker than this coffee I'm drinking in some kind of attempt to rekindle a former me.

There's the problem right there--celebrating my past as a victory, a preferred state. A roach about to be flattened doesn't reminisce about safer days, it runs for life. Terribly sad it is to wait until moments of weakness and boredom to feel best about that cliche we call written life.

When will the logjam shatter? When will nature reclaim its beast within my unforgiving chambers? Answer: When I stop waiting for gravity and the passive world to act on me and I become subject in my own sentence.