= released =

Fear and vulnerability. Sadness and sorrow. A driving drumbeat to bear the rhythms of your life. Beat them into submission as you walk wonderingly along well worn paths of the past thirty years. They’ve come and gone. Those trailblazers and pathfinders. If only they had left clues along the path to lead the way. If only clues existed to find the way. I know the way. Really. I do. But the path is narrow and my feet have a desire to wander whimsically along paths of their own devising. Seeking new and mysterious things that end up hinting at sulfur and wretchedness. Funny how the neon signs along the path are good signs when all I’ve ever seen of neon is an attempt at the other persuasion. And persuasion it is. Insidiously so. Funny how these thoughts never strike before the strike of twelve. Funny how normal people sleep before the strike of twelve. I wonder if they shut their eyes and repeat mantras to ward off the “bad” thoughts that strike after twelve. The questioning thoughts known now as the “after twelve”. All I can say at this point is that the after twelve strikes are really the only pertinent and interesting aggressions in a vanilla world that requires pillars of salt to season such blandness. Maybe such diffidence is due to a deep recognition of the ridiculousness of the situation. Maybe it is a recognition of the seriousness I know I’ll never understand. Either way, midnight strikes and I laugh myself to sleep regardless of the day done and the day to come. Make it interesting again. Please. You can consider this a plead. It does not matter what you consider this is. A plead. A cry. A wish. A dream. An answer. A joy. A ridiculousness. A morbidity. A pacing. A pleasure. An indulgence. A sorrow. It does not matter. It is what it is regardless of the label. A prayer.