Run, Forrest! Run!

These words that I write are my confession and I feel confident expressing them within the context of a pandemic’s roaming scourge, trusting that they will be strong enough to weather the inevitable scrutiny. I realize that with all that has happened, perhaps feelings or opinions of me have understandably changed.  And that is okay. I acknowledge that there is a time for brutal honesty.   And that there is a time for a gentler, though more unfamiliar, touch.  I just could never successfully make that distinction. People everywhere around me are hurting and breaking. And I am here on the sidelines, watching them hurt, with no practical avenues available to actually offer help.  And that feeling of helplessness is mercilessly suffocating my spirit.  It has me …

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wingssite

Not an Ode to Spring

It’s the hangman’s song of an unwanted winter’s first dance playing out across the face of another pale overnight.  Notes, heavy and hard, punch into my skull with predetermined regularity and there is much pleasure found in that particular pain.  But then, she never really did like the music, so I can only guess that she will probably disapprove of all of this, too. Not that the unique disparity of our discontent properly justifies anything- I simply have no proper excuse for myself so I will responsibly carry my share of that blame.  And given the turbulent nature of our histories so inconsistently intertwined, I honestly find genuine hilarity in that particular disconnect. But then, I have never been even moderately skilled at reaching out.  So …

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Winter Stomp

There is often a sizable vacuum left behind in the absence of a steady influx of fresh ridiculousness rolling into my life to help fill the gaps of pandemically inspired boredom and I have discovered that some semblance of a temporary balance might be found within the gushing inrush of unexpected nostalgia, surging up from a hesitant place to help fill that incessant hunger to feel something.  And when the familiar and intimate transcontinental texting lifelines last night understandably petered out in the crushing end-grip of another day of exhausted adulting, I was left on my own to find a way of filling another isolated night’s empty hours. And we all know that never ends particularly well for me, here alone and unsupervised, caught in the …

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Year 48…

I am not going to write the words. Not this time; not tonight. I am not going to write about the glaring disappointment.  Or the blatantly pointed and tenderizing dishonesty.  Or the near total lack of basic human compassion intentionally withheld for the sake of robbing a pauper’s empty purse of elusive emotion. I refuse to document the transparent, familiar injustices. Not again. I am no longer playing an uncontested part in the deceitful games designed to just fill this passing pandemic’s echoing, wheezing crawl. Because this infection isn’t going anywhere.  At least not for the foreseeably temporary future and as that disparaging truth burrows in deep through the isolated confines of yet another fucking inexcusable quarantine of the heart, I feel the compulsion to ask …

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Targeted Post

*DISCLAIMER:  This post was written with a specific late night transcontinental telephone conversation in mind.  To most casual readers, it will probably read like gibberish.  But I know she will understand.” Back in the depths of a mind diseased with decay, the mouldering pandemonium runs rampant in the shadow of a plague.  The uncertainty suffocates and sequesters, squeezing tight the headache raging inside a freshly infected mind. Time becomes infinitely impotent within the confines of a socially mandated internment.  Empty hours simply squandered as the clock runs dry, leaving precious little room for the drunken thief to successfully steal more. Surrounded by an imperfect darkness, only a temporary security survives.  Soon the sun will rise, setting free the fresh demon of a new day dawning.  Just …

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