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 |  a journal in short bursts that might occasionally even rhyme |
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I am not much for journal keeping. So consider this less a recitation of daily life and more of an attempt to capture a mood, or moment, as it strikes my fancy. For the easily offended, I should add the disclaimer that there is a fair amount of profanity, sex and/or politics. The words are stuck, lodged uncomfortably between hands that don't touch and the rush of cold air ghosting between lips that won't kiss A stuttering cough to dislodge them, wet and shiny with the mucous secretion of heartache, and they tumble forth, end over end, before you |
| It has weight: a backpack five pounds beyond carry comfort. A texture too, akin to grainy risotto or broken Béchamel, not inedible but unpleasant all the same. A thing to live with and live through, the third hour of a trans-oceanic journey. There might be an end; there likely is an end – unless – the gods are cruel (and merciful). It is two neighborhoods over from grin-and-bear-it, a close enough subway ride to suicide to make it worth the contemplation but not the bother. What is despair if not dissatisfaction magnified many times over? Happiness a fleeting thing, quite possibly a mirage. Even contentment is but a sister-at-arms, albeit more comfortably dressed. So it must be fine. To be feeling anything is still to be. Is there a use in “getting better” when worse is the mean? Here there is no disappointment; nothing could please. There it sits, old faithful friend, content in its advantages, unfazed as you dabble with other emotions, waiting. |
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