Like a Worn John Watson

Sometimes.

Sometimes its like being adrift in a great body of water.  My family is the wind.  My friends the jetty bracing me against the tide. Sometimes striking me, hurting me, but often times creating eddies for me to rest in; little pools of thought where I can stir up the sand without reprimand.  Events are the shores, and every now and again there is something that creates a pause in my life, an embankment that I must crest to continue.

But sometimes, like now, its a never ending stream of days at sea.  One after the other after the other after the other, where I feel there is no change and there is no growth.  And all I am aware of is the passing of time.

Every second that goes by haunts me like a physical specter and I am unable to enjoy my time in life's calm.

(Wishing for and dreading the waterfall all the same.)

"I'm tired of thinking."

I've uttered this thought ironically more than 30 times this day. I'm not estimating and I'm not guessing - I've been so introspective that I set up an actual count of this one constant & monopolizing thought.

And I've come to the conclusion that its less than healthy. So to counter it, or my way of stopping said behavior, I sleep. And because I dream lucidly and deeply, I wake up with more fodder for my never ending thoughts...and that leads me back to being tired...of thinking.

Whoa. Ladies and Gentlemen I have discovered a rut in my plans. Yup, big fucking rut.

---

Its not that I enjoy driving my self crazy, but I feel as if I've painted myself into a corner. What I want is all mapped out in my head; I have my own ideal, my own reasons for doing things. But I'm stuck at a crossroads and I've broken my leg. Now its not that I don't know which way to choose - its that I'm unable to move in any direction until I've healed. I feel that where I am is a cage too small for my wing span. And I'm tied of waiting for someone to open the latch. [Metaphor much? Gahds.]

Its a beautiful cage, with gilded bars, pristine floors and dishes. Well fed and preened is she, the bird that sings most splendidly a song that she was taught to entertain with. But its not enough to sing without reason. the other birds; the lesser birds who are given access to the world abroad, provided with the keys to their own freedom, tell of longing for what the placated bird has. The security that her cage and accoutrements offer. Her cultured plume, and colorful breast that attract and belay good standing, her gracious song, all gifts to be revered. But it's never enough She has been written off by some as ungrateful and its often that she finds herself thinking the same. "What have I to feel longing for?" But its what's outside her damnable door that she wants; feelings that she cannot imagine and thoughts that she cannot concieve alone. She wants to be more than the pretty birdie, always looking out yet lacking things within. Because now that shes grown her cage is too small. And birds in small cages never do well.

Love

i have yet to realize the true enormity
of that which i have become conscious:

That one, ultimately, stands in the way of them self,

them and those both dependant; independent and of procurement in the future

[mirror Image of the traveler = those they depend on/those they don't/those who have procured them in their past share the same stumbling block]

the logistics are as cautiously approached as string theory [yet enclosed albeit as chaotically as m-theory]

those that know innately are spared the trial by error, abscond from the scars of journeying;

The lessons that guardians leave out,

the world teaches ungrudgingly,

and God chalks up to the expense of free will

in the end it is you, battle scarred and willfully consummate, yet circumscribed to the effect that you have not truly learned, you, and I that am removed, argumentum a fortiori, from the true, suant, meaning of self.