One Push is All You Need

Motivation is elusive.  Like a rusted machine, my narrative gears are slow to engage.  Too much time not laying down even the least worthy thought in minimal prose.  It’s maddening.  Literally in some ways.  Expressing my doubts, fears, moments of failure, these pile upon me like jangling chains dragging in the dark waters.  Putting them in sharp relief upon a page draws them like poison from a wound.  That wound might not ever heal but at least it won’t eventually kill me from psychic sepsis.

My life is not awash in turmoil and self flagellation as it once may have been.  Getting older deepens the understanding of old wounds and makes it harder to take new hits, but I face far less confrontation and chaos than my previous days.  My queue of conflict has largely been fought out and burning several bridges behind my advance has lessened return engagements.  There is only the path I’ve wrought and what is left before me.

Happiness is a goal but honestly, a person like me will never be happy in the rainbow unicorn chocolate sprinkles sunshine way I imagine others (consciously or not) have as a benchmark.  I can’t truly know what they believe but my sense is of a disproportionate or problematic simplistic abstract that relies heavily upon a lack of genuine self awareness or understanding of the manifest human condition.  Things we buy can make us less miserable.  Fucking someone (especially out of our league) can drive away the pain.  Casting down others in some masturbatory treatise asserting profound insight over lesser mortals by salient command of profound knowledge, can bring a smile to the face.  Not sure that’s genuine happiness though.

Actually knowing oneself (and even more importantly others), makes it almost impossible to be at peace.  Wanting to fix everything, needing terribly to resolve old bitterness or salve the damage inflicted present or past, seeing the greater picture and knowing how small those efforts will be and perhaps certain to fail because of the weakness that set it all in motion to begin with…

For every lock opened, others close, every fire extinguished reveals ever more flames, the war rages regardless of who casts down arms or desires an end to death and discord.  I know struggle is what IT is, what it all is, in most fundamental function.  Without it, nothing changes or grows; a world without tension between elements would wither and perish.  Dead worlds abound where nothing pushed and poked life to slow stir and rise from cold dust.  It’s still annoying to never feel safe, to never experience certainty in actions, to always feel another challenge awaits that might yet shatter the fragile cohesion, bring down the card house on fated whim, and crush what sanguine hope soft slumbered.

It’s Sunday night, I’m insanely tired (no pun intended) and my mind is afield as someone once eloquently framed it.  Tolkien?  A week awaits the weak and strength is manufactured to rally the soul in mundane labors awash in unrelenting tension and concern.  All I do is win…my heart takes no prisoners, seeks no quarter and suffers no excuse.  There is only the hard way to the end of day, all others need not apply.

or so I tell myself.  How that smoldered dusk finds me when the words no longer summon the blood…perhaps that will be the only peace possible.

Goodnight again, take heart that both tragedy and glory are equally fleeting, that it is what we choose to serve and execution of our will that shapes and hastens one over the other, providing defiant clarity between the spaces we are forced to know.

KOTD