When was the last time you lost control of yourself?
In a funny way, in a sickly way, or, for some, a sexually charged way: losing oneself is the catharsis so desperately sought.
Yet in your reflections, tracing a finger over those bumps in road – did it do you any good? You’re still here… I wonder if it changed anything.
As one ages so one may find some envy in those gung-ho enough with their smodgy politics or idealisms. The shaking fist and the restrained tears: how captivating in the loss of our storyline, or redemption. An assertion to hold that one does, indeed, have something left to defend.
Whatever panting left before the silence enveloped: whatever morning waiting so things continue the same. Fought so much for something to fade the same as anything else. Exposed so much just to bury those parts of yourself with the memory.
Whatever rung out in fury or in reverie, so the morning after comes with the dew as a temporary eye burning. Not even the aftermath shall last. Swept in time, forgotten and a new controversy shall enter stage. Maybe these certainties make it so we can safely lose ourselves once more. Hoping to never be found.
Which do you think is better? A park visit everyday for years, or a rollercoaster weekend? Of course this is all unfairly written, but there’s no fair way to write it.
After enough icepicks submerge with your ribcage so maybe one shall fasten a cat’s cradle to catch any other furball uprisings.
Nothing good comes from confessions; nothing good comes from unbridled passion. A pathway to incarceration, or a barrier to heaven’s gate.
If you can’t gently lay your wants along doorstep leaves and let the wind scatter them at first chance, well, maybe you’ll find something I haven’t yet.