It’s only twenty past noon. So far today, all I’ve done is eat breakfast, clean the toilet, take a shower, and fold laundry – but somehow, it feels like the day should be over. As if it will take forever to be done with.
Which merely leads you to the question – what will you do when this day is over? You go to bed and wake up and repeat the process all over again, unsure what to occupy yourself with at any given moment, and oftentimes staring into space when you should have been doing something else. Looking at the list of projects you’re supposed to be working on, but unable to settle on one. Reading the same line in a book half a dozen times before closing the book and giving up.
I feed the neighborhood squirrels and birds when the weather is good. Yesterday, I saw one of the squirrels lying dead in the road. I’m not saying I blame whoever hit him – I’d like to believe there are fewer people who would do that on purpose than otherwise – but it still ruined my day. I woke up today feeling almost buoyant, but have since deflated completely, like a balloon that someone let all the air out of. Grand resolutions now seem to be nothing more than chalk squiggles on the sidewalk that the rain will wash away.
But I suppose that’s what all resolutions really are, when you stop and think about it. They matter for a few brief moments – i.e., however long you’re alive – but the fact remains that we all end up like the squirrel in the road. Sooner or later.
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle
Run, run, run
Hurry, hurry, hurry
As fast as you can
So many things to do
So many things left undone
By the dip of the sun.
For the thousandth time
And as you sit
With your drink
Eyes on the
The day went
Your mind slows
Peace for now
Until the morrow.
Electronic beats drop a line
Steady hum and drum on low, back of my mind
Words set out in a row
Black font on a grey background.
Birds singing in the trees outside
Nature mingling with technology.
Social media notifications fall like an IV drip
Click the tab to see what’s going on
Lost in the unreal world of the Internet
Brain disconnected from the body.
But faded and worn down
Like black-and-grey tattoos.
Listening to clothes
Spinning in the dryer
Something metal clangs
Against the drum.
Strong incense drifts
Through the air
While a low candle
“The state of one’s heart,” Gala countered,
“Is not so simple as that.”
And take heed – this is true.
There are moments of weakness
(Much more common, I find)
And there are moments of strength
(Hard to locate, but not nonexistent).
Depression can make you want to
Alter your physical appearance
While happiness can make you feel beautiful.
But the exterior is just a mold
Ever-changing, hardly more than putty
In a petulant child’s fist.
Why prize it so highly?
You may be pleased with your countenance
But while your heart is in shards
It does you little good.
Better to let the putty melt a bit
Better to let the child deform it a little
If a healthy heart is the end result.