There is only now. Just sit for a moment and experience all that is now - your heartbeat and the blood pouring through you - a road race inside, your palm touching the wood table, the slurry of busy noise in the room, the air making your nostrils cold, your belly rising, the colors on the book shelf. All in This moment. The way your hand crumples the paper, the quiet behind all the noise, deep within. This algorithm. ALL is only NOW.
Each letter and word try and try. Each sentence left not to disgrace my demeanor. Neat and tidy and learned and not tom and RISK NOTHING, not even playing music under the fallacy of Sobriety when I’m not sober and drink less when I’m with Stan, but it opens that Freedom I won’t afford myself. No more letting go and being tom, but layers and layers of crust and fabric – layers and layers to view the once fertile loam, the exquisite loss of control and weeks unsound just playing out life in the rich soil soul. But now we’re all very strict and growing heavier every day without any sense or logic behind it. Hard breath and cough. Stone and afraid to crack. Bury it all and put another coat of glaze on the pottery. I see a crack there and we won’t let the blood and loam spill out. Watching the funny is a waste, as it’s buried so deep in the mess that who can bring it up without cracking the temple. It’s a social temple, and some day I’ll go the opposite and be insane all the time, and be to
Comments
Post a Comment