If it were my choice, I would end it all right now. As the pain wears away at my decaying body, it does so to my soul as well. The life is fading away from my frail body like a trickle of water going down a drain. Each day as my last, I ponder my existence and resistance on this planet. Knowing that it's not the end until my body gives in. No more will I live in fear of people. Thoughts. Expectancies. For I am an old man, an old man with enough life to battle on, not because I have to, but because I need to. To prove to you that my conquest isn't over. Not yet. Although my power is fading, I will carry on until my last breath is breathed. Until my heart no longer beats. Until my brain no longer functions. But for now we all must realise the potential each and everyone of us behold. Although you may see me as old and that my time is up. Is yours? It is never too late to start a new journey or path into something. For I did the same thing. For I willingly took up the befuddled idea of chess at my age, to master it before I die. Make most of what you have. Time is of the essence, so make sure you essentially use up what you have left to make something of you. If not, don't worry, it's your life.
Maybe he was unwinding from his day of of doubt. Maybe he was re-thinking his pursuit. Whatever it was, his heart hurt and he knew he was stressing about silly things. Life. What is it but a playground with birds and trash cans. What is life but randomness and chance, where ignorant middle-class bystanders talk of such ridiculous things as “Luck” and “Karma,” with totally serious expressions on their faces. A queen could fall in the mud, and a hobo could steal a piece of meat… it means nothing. It says nothing about either of them. What makes them different? Chaos. Neurons. And psychological inertia, or lack thereof. They are both the victims of unseen agendas of spiritual forces. What is life but a platform for spiritual warfare. What is life other than a chess board for greater spiritual beings? Traps for fools, I say. And if we stress about the randomness and meaningless placement of the pieces, we will find ourselves trapped.
The arguing erupts an artist's harboring calm. A mom a fond lawn knew once as a yawn to call on. Easy pickings, a blissful mission. Ambition in the ambient stored soul. A written man venting is mortal self. The quest yonders down the dirty clothes. Garments grasps stains from the gardens grass. Gain will clean it..
I'm creaky and ached, dragging limbs
in the sunshine bake.
It's not really a walk, or a dance, but a fight
—just to live another day
the way I want in the light.
Stuff keeps piling up.
Useless shit I shouldn't have.
Project fragments tumbling over all my shelves and all my desks.
There's a temptation to twirl
in the center of the room,
with a kerosine can in my hand,
showering everything, before dropping
a match on it all as I drag my limbs
out to the front yard to watch it all expand in anger,
then contract in shame.
Down to dry ash, to be fondled by a breeze.
Down to dimensions past, behind doors without keys.
Down to nothing, leaving just an open space
for a brand new canvas.
What could I do then?
A florist focuses on her floor full of her own flourishing florescence. Formulating a force to form a formidable opponent. Few dispute the beautiful bonnet or the fuel that gives food to bare the fruit of her fair labor. A barrier between a barely able and blare witch fable. We create where we direct ourselves to accept. We favor what we project, never forget. Where we come from, its what we come to wear at our best. Day of depth.