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In_Bloom
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How often do you consider it?
How long until you cannot do the things you take for granted?
How long until you are no longer desired and cast aside, replace or expected to live on as a shell of your former self?
Think about it sometime and ask yourself what you will do with the fear, bitterness and regret.
How many hours do you spend in a day paying lip service to strangers and acquaintances?
How many hours do your hands busy themselves with video games instead of over the body of a live human?
How many hours do you gaze into a screen of some sort that feeds you images and blurts of language?
What about living eyes that you take for granted to look into yours and reflect the reality of mortal time.
How do you weigh the importance of a live interactive voice that speaks specifically for you?
How often do you dismiss or undervalue who you lie down with?
How many minutes or hours is it honorable to nuture and celebrate if you have love?
What does it really mean to you other than not being alone.
Is it more than someone to chew your food with or to provide warmth?
What do you need versus what do you want and can you have those things?
Sometimes I feel my mortal time is a slow leak of a lifetime of treasured thoughts or energies. It's all a gamble as to where they are let loosed. Why must it be a pick and choose, priortizing and cramming into allotted space? If I feel I can move five times the speed then why don't I? Why don't others?
Maybe they do and that's where trouble waits. Other people gamble to taste all they are able, they worry about the crushed hearts later or they don't worry at all and keep vicious excuses or justifications at the ready for the day they're called on their choices.
Time is making me feel like an evil bastard. I've seen the reality of what becomes a human life enough times not to fool myself into believing I'm an exception. I've been an exception more than a few times and so the odds says it's unlikely for many more. If I were younger then I'd have better odds. I could have made different choices. We all see things more valuable in retrospect but it takes a turning point to get to that year, that horrible fucking year where everything makes sense. Even the shit makes sense.
I have the number of window blinds memorized. I know where there are lumps in a mattress. I wear clothes to bed to numb my body from feeling to reach out. I learn to huddle in a spot and be still. I gobble up frantic minutes like manna rather than live out the banquet in my head. I busy my fingers to spill my thoughts in order to find some sort of sigh and release. I tell myself I've not become a beggar but there are days and nights when I think I lie to myself.
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