change

I know you see me, on the other side of our oblivion.
Curiosity knows no bounds, and though we put ourselves aside to walk another day without sight, we still wish to know.

Inside the dark, under the covers of your eyes I shift passed your view and you push my image aside answering to the voices you hear full well.
But those ones in your head? Like mine? The sounding echo off the wall between your spirit and mine, that never needed to be built except for preservation of sanity.

Tell me my dear, are you sane now?
Are you content? I know you are. I understand this sanity as one day passes to the next, as normality drives you mad.
It is what you wanted isn’t it?

Isn’t it?
To be content. To be sane. To be somehow normal and live a normal life.

To be happy.

Are you happy without answering to my voice? Does your heart race as fast as your despair consumes you? Does confusion darken your horizon as deeply as epiphany emblazons your truth? Does passion swell inside your soul as it does inside your garments? Is your sword held at the ready as tightly as your will and lack thereof is held at guard?

The choices we make do not always come with the price tag attached.

Well that just made my mind up.
I cannot be asked. Really I can’t.

My life is spilling over right now with ‘have to’s’ and schedules I cannot even fit in. WHAT THE FUCK am I thinking adding more to that equation to stifle the only place I really have to let go of all of that bullshit and unwind and ‘let go’, and be creative without being cerebral?

I get that writing challenges are just that – challenges. But in this context are they REALLY?

Or are they some crap ass way of marketing? (Obviously)

Whereas I DO enjoy playing with alliteration, which was the ONLY thing making me feel ANY enthusiasm to be forced to do a poem every god damn day of April basically, I – well – I don’t want to anymore. Not many things I can say that to. Rebel that I am not, I am not going to do it! HOORAY! NOW THAT feels better!

We all know I can alliterate away, because I can, and be a smart dick, so can my seven year old. But I feel jack shit doing so, so the point is?

Look, I kinda WAS ‘excited'(strong use of the word)… but a twelve hour shift, and that excitement quickly dwindles.

Ah well I guess i am not a REAL writer then – or maybe I am just not a real blogger?
Truthfully, it is repetitive and contrite.
Real writers would be motivated and push through the ‘I don’t want to and am tired.’
Yes, they would. They would stop blogging, stop playing fucking games and keep writing the poetry book they are writing, keep writing the story they began on Sunday, and stop getting distracted by … dunno … nice for some right?

Well there you go…we got to the letter ‘C’ to realise that it is all, for me personally, a load of CRAP. 😉

Do you think (or feel like) changing your mind is giving up, or realising you made a bad decision? Not me…for you?