Hopeful The daylight brings a song that shivers spines and slices sadness to slivers. A whisper propagates my pores and sorely pours my pensivity from the pocket of my mind. In kind, I wake and take in all that glistens, glowing warm and vibrant underneath our nearest nurturer of life in space and time. “Today…”, I say, as lay no more I do, but who and why would I consider what could come next. And so I saunter steadily forward, facing a friendly phase from which I’d rather learn than run. And I am hopeful.
Triumphant Bang on cymbals steadily and march to beats that belie the fear that predated my performance. Today, talking, training my tongue to tangle the torturous troubles in my head, I’ve bedded the enemy: apathy. For when working with my digits wanes, my wheels begin to spin on doubts of self, within, without, I shout away the voice that preys on vulnerability. And I am triumphant.
Cautious My trepidation left the station with me, simply scouring maps for traps of attitude has left me feeling feeble in the face of frightful obstacles. I’m crawling. In my mind, I’m crawling. There is clear direction, but it’s daunting, and so on all fours I face the race toward obsolescence. In essence, I’ve decided that I want to win, but who I’m racing I cannot discern through driving rain and painful memories I’ve long since left behind me. In front, the future calls me forth, and so I stumble forward, reaching first, but I am stably on hands and knees for these challenges ahead are not the ones I read I’d face in tales of heroes and heroism. And I am cautious.
Somber Thump. Thump. Thump. My footsteps. My heartbeat. My timeline, trickling, ticking clockwork clutters all I’ve ever known til the bones of my skull are ringing with the resonance of ethereal ends. Thumping through the thoughts. We will not make it. The only truth is this and so I witness why, but fixate only on the how instead, for dead is not the way I want to be. And I am somber.
Trapped Left flank, guarded by ghosts and ghouls that gauntly grimace, gingerly yet definitely defining that the way is blocked. Right flank, forward, toward the end, and then… That isn’t obvious and so I settle on the simple thought of settling. Loneliness perturbs, and so we strive for comfort in common, solace in shared spaces, almost allowing us to avoid the obvious. And yet, we are, but will not be when done with us the world at large will surely find finality, but who will see? Not me. And I am trapped.
Strong Effort to no end is not the only way to stay. We work, I work, toward goals that guide our transience toward meaning which cannot, will not, or should not trouble us. Good. I want to be good. You want to be good. We want to be good. Are we good? What is good, how is good, who is good. Strength to face uncertainty is all I can to discern to be a trait that takes the cake and eats in the face of fraudulence and frailty. And I am strong.
Hungry Satisfied by slumber, suddenly I start to stir. The words that wake my mind, I wonder, are they words that will not blur or whir the gears between my ears with aspirations? My only blunder was that I had not, for having is superior, unless, of course, not having should shake free future fortuity. I yearn, a void envelopes my virtues with violent pangs that push me toward horizons yet unseen. It’s mean to mark a man for miles untraveled, feats under the fiery gaze of glory yet to come. And I am hungry.
Willing Much to do, too much to do, there is always too too much to do, and through it all we wish for more of this and that and here and there. We are not present anywhere, and yet it is not much to be, for being is all we’ve ever done. Why run from here when there is far? My car won’t take me there at all, nor anywhere beyond the fall of moonlight on this sunken land. The memories that haunt my hands bring forth these words that you now read, and yet, I bet, you’d never get to be beyond. Unless, of course, we all can be. And I am willing.
Anxious Buzzing bees within my knees have zapped a pit inside of me. What can I expect to be but failing, falling through air that simply isn’t there? I care too much. I do not want. Why can’t I try to push through walls not tall, but small and spiky. I suppose I’ll step over silently, so they won’t notice that my nerves have tricked me. I am tickled with nonconsensual tickles and I want them to stop, cease, slide through the spaces in my ears and onto the floor so I might kick them toward the exit. And I am anxious.
Lazy Open-mouthed and closed-minded, today I know the way. I’ll stay here, right where I am, for here is as good as any place I’ve been. I wish for nothing more than here. It’s clear you want to push and prod and pry, but patently I’ll politely pull the covers back to covering. Perhaps tomorrow talks of taking risks and tackling challenges will worm their way through the wrinkles in my cortex, but I expect that time will tell. And I am lazy.
Lonely Surrounded, loved, nurtured, and yet still the creeping truth remains. In rains, there is not cloud cover whose blanket can contain my thoughts of permanence, in proximity to everyone while unabashedly alone. In this I am quite right, I’m sure, there is not more to be than here. The mirror gives an image of the self we see, duality, we are portrayed as though reversed, and we are cursed to never be within that image truly. And I am lonely.
Grateful Before me rests my box of belongings, not physical but weighty nevertheless. Accumulated over years, some are left behind with time but I find that those that matter make the journey pushing boulders up and down a bit less arduous. We each have boxed our beings into bodies of our own and others best work. Still, I sometimes sit and scan through sheets that summarize my sense of self. I do not leave them on the shelf, for me is my best attribute, and here and now is where I strive to stay. And I am grateful.
Virtuous How many times have values defined my behaviors, braving the brandished broadsword of opposition and spitting in the face of silence and static solemnity? If nothing else, I want to live a life and leave a legacy that shamelessly includes the things I care to be and do, for who I cross paths with will surely stare on with wonder and perhaps confusion, as their ways cannot define mine. I am. And I am virtuous.
Rambunctious Tumbling through the desert winds that spin up tumbleweeds, I knead the dough of my day. I’ll take and bake the stake I keep in the game to tame my whirling worries, for today there is no need to recognize, wrestle back, or bend. I’m sprinting. Will you join me? I can show you how we will and won’t become the way we ought to be. And I am rambunctious.
Ornery Get out. Go back. Be gone from here. I do not need your face, my dear. I fear that all you’ve said and done, will only lead me far from where I want to be. You see? The cadence broke. And up in smoke will go the only joke I’ve made, we laid together, whistling provocations and objections from across the sheet. Today, I say, we stay away, for tomorrow may bring solace, but that day is far away. And I am ornery.
Whimsical I muse that monkeys’ mangy mugs, riddled with bugs that must be plucked, picked, chewed, and chomped, should jump from tree to tree mostly to be beside another tree. Decree that donkeys don’t have digits, and yet still they saunter seamlessly through straits and meadows. Shouldn’t we? This life we live is, I live at least, is one which ebbs and flows like banks of rivers swelling at sight of storms that sore overhead. Red sand is that which passes slowly through the nozzle of the hourglass, and time pushes us toward the violet future wherein pace predictably picks up. And I am whimsical.
Fortuitous The clover plucked for luck is not one which can grow to be much more than symbolic for trick-or-treaters traipsing through the tulip-lined lands. We all must ring the bell and pray, for king-sized candy bars don’t always wait behind the doors that remain locked. Red doors with brass handles, blocking our way forward. But there always seems to be a side entrance that enchants the mind in kind. Through this I’ll march. And I am fortuitous.
Zany Warmth above the roof is knotted to the wet, cool earth, and mirth rings out from my gut as I whistle a warm welcome to the birds that blast their tune through windows waiting on the day. A ray of recollection is not the selection on this morning, for this day could do without the start and end. Instead, I read once that some days are marked by only those who care to note their chapters as they write. In white and black, the ink and paper dry and so I try to capture movements of the mind that worry professionals but bring a peaceful reset to the droll hum-drum of day-to-day. And I am zany.
Ready Time. Now, if we talk about the time, the place, in space, we must align on where for when is set by where as where is set by when. If when we walk toward trails whose amber glow suggests the sun is setting soon, and yet the moon brings with it greater light than daybreak brought, is that not daytime? When this life turns its page, six feet below, through fits of rage and tears from those left behind, the surface will keep spinning, or at least that is the way the world we know it has been painted in our minds. I start my day and sigh, for each one’s shorter than the last. And I am ready.
Jealous How could they, despite their best effort to not, to fail, to fall, despite it all, be so far beyond where I am? Am I not where I ought to be? If me is who I’ll always be, then how come they cannot be me, and we cannot be there, you see? I want, I need, I think there’s more, in store for me and simply put, let’s not pretend they deserve what I cannot. Unless of course, there’s something more, some thing beyond that made the call, but why would She or He or They let we and Me be here to stay when they are there and I am here? I fear inferiority of experience. And I am jealous.
Thoughtful If we don’t put the way we are behind us, then the truth can only be that we are where we always were. In her or him, we find some peace, we sleep and wake to only understand a little less or more, depending on the day. We must project feelings of aptitude, of course, and so we shower with discretion our transient acknowledgements of mortality. Abnormality is celebrated from afar, while doors ajar are quickly closed to pose our homes as those of neighbors who will judge that just a gap of inches indicates some slight of character. And I am thoughtful.
Worried If in the future writing is synthesized solely by the creatures we created, bit-by-bit, not normally as by the hand that thought to write in earnest, why would anyone want more than an existence which mimics the thoughts and feelings of the flock? I graze on gobs of green grass gracefully, a sheep among the herd with written words not generated but created. We do not seek doom, and yet we dumb the generations yet to come for words we wield facilitate the feelings we communicate. If still we sit, we will soon find that screens and servers aren’t the mind. Their mimicry is mockery. And I am worried.
Patient Silence envelopes me, as here I sit with much to say. Inpatient left its mark on me, outpatient now I’ve gone away. I stray from striving sometimes, for the thoughts that seep through silken folds of cerebellum stiffen my resolve. I seek to learn, I seek to know, I seek to find the way to grow behind my eyes, but long and slow this ride has been, except for when it’s not. Sometimes, in fact, attracted by the only way I know, I row my boat aggressively, but other times the current carries forth the movement. And I rock to sleep, pontificating whether there I’ll be tomorrow. And I am patient.
Curious Knock, knock goes the woodpecker, probing for her dinner. In her target, behind bark that’s been there long before her generation’s suppertime, lies wonder within cells of fibrous filament. The world around us is a top that stops for no one, marble-ous and marvelous, a place of many and of plenty, providing and protecting, perilous yet peaceful. How we got here haunts the hearts of many, but behind it all the bare beyond may only be a blackness, swallowing the way we were. And I am curious.
Productive If all we exist for is more or less to not digest, but to progress the rest around us, should I jest? We stay abreast of that which happens in the world at large, but barge into our homes at night, turn out the light, and hope for a tomorrow that will bring some greater greatness, but is great not great enough? To be alive is not a gift given to everything we see and touch, and much the same we must give back, we work, we toil, we strive for something similarly beautiful. We’ll leave it when we’re gone. And I am productive.
Quiet Windy breezes bristles backs of dogs let out to do their business, or I bet that is the case at least. Their barking briefly cuts the night. Then back inside they go, and so I settle into night, no light, inside I fight with more to say, but here I lay. Tomorrow brings another day, which I muse face with vigor lest I lose the only fight I fight, the fight to stay. And I am quiet.
Brave If not myself, there is no one that I would be. I walk a path that many march on melancholically, their drums long since discarded in the face of waves which wash away their hopes of beating back the beasts and demons that decay us to delirium. I do not care. Within my mind I find a way to track the North I’ve chosen, frozen high above me in the sky, I’ll paddle on until the water sweeps me up like cookie crumbs that crumbled from the chin of chubby babies bouncing blindly toward a life less certain than what lies beyond. And I am brave.
Professional A painter is the occupation that I’ve coyly chosen, though the canvas is not made of hide, nor is inside it anything but time and space for this place here is where I paint my masterpiece. The language I’ve been given is a gift I carry graciously. The brushstrokes I produce are not those which will garner grandiose gestures of goodwill, but still I’ll paint, for painting captures what I can’t communicate without the colors that we all perceive. And I am professional.
Introspective Thoughts examined internally tend to manifest as more than thoughts and instead stymie truth they mask. So ask yourself, as I have done, what runs through veins within you, the lifeblood that pumps your body periodically from slumber to success? I guess I cannot know unless you tell me, swell my thoughts with words that leave me marveling at many similarities between us. We are not so different, distinct, while diversity of thought and place has left us space to disentangle, every angle points us back to here and now. And I am introspective.
Humble All I have done is won the trophy of my own display, for say I hadn’t run the race, I never would have been this place. I find I need not to be told of times long spent as I grow older than I was, because I see that everything that then began and ended has extended my existence into new and nifty niches that I never knew I’d know. So I can now reflect with pride, while also knowing here inside, that better, worse, or in between, just doesn’t mean as much as once it did. And I am humble.
