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 the questions.

But I am not going to write the answer’s words.

Not when I have grown so very distrustful of them, where once they were my most everything.

Not when they say so very little at the end of another bland day, jumbled under temporary definitions so skewed under the spotlight’s unflinching edits.

I will not employ the few remaining tools of my laughably unsuccessful trade to again pick apart the petty dramas unfolding under the broken fall skyline of a refuted and inhospitable City of Wayne.

Words simply cannot be trusted and I choose to abandon the idea of them before they can further undermine an already tenuous foundation so unstable in its totality.

They are replaced here instead with only the crisp, unmitigated simplicity of my possibilities as I am left wandering in the desolate shadows of a confusingly captivating predictability, so neatly defined by former mistakes.

And I am apparently destined to suffer in the abject solitary wail of my own indeterminable screams, unknowingly paying the price for someone else’s sin.

But the sound never quite drowns out the preponderance of my underlying imperfections, successfully skewing the conversation away from my many unseemly scars and gently misanthropic inconsistencies.

The same fatal flaws acknowledged from the very start, in the interest of adult disclosure, still define me.  The same glaring disappointments I cautioned against praising, before that first term of endearment was even planted in the barren and unproductive fields of a connection sown so foolishly out of season, choke and decimate the harvest.

And it is long past the time to reap that failed lover’s field.

All that’s left to do is run unproductively fallow in a mistake that was born 48 years ago today and wait patiently for another harvest yet to be born.

So happy fucking birthday to me.

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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