Bleary Eyed/Headed

Those who know me know that I am an extremely focused person, whether it be writing, music, jumping into bodies of water, whatever. Those who know me may not know that when the focus goes astray, for reasons unknown, I seemingly become an all-together different person. I don’t and can’t feel when it comes to the daily whatever. Hmmmm…this is turning into a post that I’ve steered clear of since I began…who cares.

It is not lack of adventure that plagues my lack of the written word lately. In the odd warmth of a January night I ventured to my favorite summer destination – the lake. Joining me was a long-time friend and all-around great person. We leaned on cement, words, and became alarmed when the cops approached (it is, of course, illegal to be next to the lake at 3:00am with bottle in hand and belly). Pleasantries exchanged and we were on our way into the warmth of my apartment to finish off the remainder of malt bubbles and widen our eyes with music. It made me feel young though I will always be old. I smiled and stopped feeling ashamed for twelve hours. When PM becomes AM and you’re around to see it, it is usually a good thing.

There’s a stack of music waiting for me to judge. I blamed the holidays and the busy-bustle, and now I blame myself. I feel dirty, though I am showering more than ever. It is a state of confusion that I am cloaked in, keeping the warmth, yes, but keeping out the facts, whatever they may be. I read and read and listen and talk and share and steal and fight and glare and shake hands and eat and shit and groan at the sound of the alarm clock alongside everyone else on this big, watery ball but yet seem to be apart from anything that I can comprehend. At the end of the day all I want is to be able to do more push-ups and enjoy something like A Streetcar Named Desire (so unfortunately boring). Instead, High Plains Drifter, with its poor acting and lovable mayor/sheriff named Mordecai, fills my sleepy body with glee and elation. It’s not a matter of taste but merely a desire for blood and escape. The Man With No Name is my Jesus.

It is possible that I am a product of regimen. When something is thrown out of whack, and it has been a few times recently, everything else leaves to figure out where it, or they went. Unfortunately the only thing that happens is that everything leaves and I am left to construct a new fortress of needs and wants. I have no pity for myself, or others, and do not seek it. I merely want answers. I have the questions, I think, but no sage.

Mercy, how cheesy and transparent and opaque. What a boob I am.

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