Dirty

I use to desire to be born again, with new wings and no filthy anchor. Now, I only crave sleep. Years ago, when “years ago” didn’t exist, my mouth spoke of things of which I did not know. In that respect, very little has changed. I am still a child of instinct and an infant of impulse, yet I feel as if wisdom is very wisely trying to take hold. I’m not sure what to do wisdom anymore than I know what to do with guilt. Both of them feel heavy, and I question the usefulness of either one. One thing is for damn sure; age doesn’t guarantee you any thing but years. Experience is subjective and wisdom….well, wisdom only dwells where It’s invited. I spend these days destroying mountains in lieu of climbing them, and I feel as if my rubble pile is almost at overflow. I’m getting close. Because it’s a life I try to keep real, I will not sully any online platform with the boringness of real responsibility. Suffice to say, a goal that I’ve have been seeking for quite some time is about to be obtained; and I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it. I’m leaning toward a geographical exorcism, which has needed to happen for quite some time. I need some silence for a while, if only for a moment. I need solitude and a drink. What I’ll probably get is a reunion and cottonmouth. Either way, I’ve always been a proponent of playing the cards we’re dealt, even though I’ve been known to count a card or two. I’m no Rain Man, but I’m not so dry, either. I have an ounce of experience to go along with a gallon of ambition, and I think I’d like to keep those proportions constant. What I’m learning about myself, and others, is there seems to be one truth that really binds us: we are all so sure of our own bullshit, even when said bullshit is deep enough to drown in.

How horrible would that be, to drown in shit?

I think I’d rather swim…

In a stream…

Writing rinses the shit off sometimes, doesn’t it?

Clean