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 another day of disappointment; just another cycle in the curse of existence.

But sometimes, that cycle rings in unexpected after another late night text blindly sent, like the sting of a dirty tourniquet-ringed shot taken, just for the fuck of it.  Or the occasionally accidental penthouse-infused fellatio, tinged with lingering questions of Special K-tainted regret.

Other times, it rages in on the sharpened barbs of a porcupine’s quill, tricky and sharp, threatening danger and enticing you with the thrill of taking just a quick poke for the team, even though you run the very real risk of getting bitten at the end.

Some nights, the cycle runs unexpectedly weird and cuts you in pieces, just like that middle school heart-shaped jewelry, cleanly cut in half and awkwardly shared with a person who just did not understand the gesture.  The same person who shared a sweaty gym floor dance filled with hesitant, deeply Caucasian gestures rocking back and forth to the rhythm of the Journey being played, before ditching the scene to pursue other, more promising interests under the bleachers when they thought no one was watching.

Rarely does that cycle swirl in on kisses of a gently patient tolerance.   More times than not, it hides instead behind the sweaty security found inside of a misunderstood gimp mask, made carefully by hand to obscure its identity safely behind the promises of some consensual intent.

Things are constantly churning and changing, fucking and dying.  Everything about this existence is tragically flawed by its impermanence and no amount of longing or passion can ever alter that undeniable absolute.

And here’s the big secret that almost no one ever tells you- life is seldom going to be consistently awesome.  Sure, there are moments where things click and you ride that high and enjoy the fuck out it for all it’s worth- making memories…finding love… landing a dream job.

But there is always going to be the inevitable collapse after.  It is simply unavoidable.

It’s always easy, and almost even comforting, to constantly take stock and mourn for things lost, those sparks of life that we once held dear.  But, like everything else, those things remembered are seldom durable and it becomes so simple to get caught immobile in the vacuum of their sudden absence.

The only thing that can be done in the face of constant uncertainty is to take stock of the many reminders of how ridiculously temporary this all is- every heartbeat…every first love…every word written on the page…every broken heart.  All just… temporary.  And then once you have the count, finding ways of stealing any handful of happiness to help feed that hesitant contentment.

You can’t chase the fear away with pointless, empty sex.  Booze is at best just a stall.  And at worst, a co-conspirator.  So, too, are words a lot of the time.  Pharmaceuticals, while occasionally enjoyable when not consumed within the tragic confines of an unexpected holocaust’s endless loop, are a necessary danger best taken with a dose of caution.  Or the company of the most convenient bush.

Eventually though, you’ll just have to suck it all up and either make something of your life, or flame out in surges of self-pity and booze-fueled mediocrity.  You’ll have to step up on the intimidating stage, or get your ass on that November flight, soon to be on the books.

The change is coming quick.  I can see it just as clearly as I can see the classic label attached to my very name.  And soon I will have to take that leap.

Because at this point, I’m just too fucking old to start living in a van.  Even if it does have a cat.

About Grey Fox

...author, fighter, lover, typewriter fanatic, and unrepentant Fenian bastard. Known to few, hated by many, but still typing the good fight.

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