I remain a prisoner my own jailer trapped in a tapestry of my own tastes and my own desires and my own self a self that doesn't exist I have freedom, to be sure free to act how I wish free from constraints free to think to act to believe but I am still a prisoner and left to my own devices my own preconceived view of right and wrong of good and bad of black and white of shades of gray I remain imprisoned victim of my own thoughts my own fears my own dreams prisoner to my own view absent of clarity absent of context chained to my day while freedom is just a breath away I reject the notion that I can just let go as hard as I try, my attempts end in vain and move forward for even in the letting go there is expectation that does not dissipate it eats at the fringes of my restful mind questioning all doubting everything never reaching that blissful, settled state that promises relief from doubt fear anger angst busy, monkey-mind won't release its grip on the banana whirling around in circles on to the next stop when this one is incomplete always starting never finishing.
awaken to the sound the gentle swell and release of the ocean just outside my window of the ocean just inside my phone smell the coffee brewing thank god for timers the scent of vanilla wafting up the stairs the scent of cinnamon filling the house log in and grimace so much to do take a deep breath but the stress remains shut the laptop drink the coffee randomly chosen mug I watch the words resolve to a sentence and I think me too, mug, me too - I'm definitely going back to bed after this.
as I begin the long, slow slog towards fifty-eight (and beyond, hopefully) with a mind that is clear and a heart that is full (or at least more clear than a year ago and at least more full than yesterday) I have learned to not look back in anger or resentment or fear or melancholia or wistfulness what happened yesterday or last week or month or year is set in stone unchanging and I can gain nothing from it but to learn from it I have learned to not worry about the future adopting a fluid view of what can be and what cannot and so as I start day two thousand eight hundred and twenty I breathe in and note it and focus on the now that is foremost in my mind (at least more so than a year ago at least more so than yesterday) and let go of the anger and worry that they lied to us, for they promised us jetpacks and yet I remain grounded here on earth.
one more book one more drink one more song not so much to ask one more guitar one more practice one more gig not too much to ask one less argument one less headache one less heartache not so much to ask one more day one more walk one more kiss not too much to ask one more trip around the sun with you.
hey, good evening glad you could make it can I get you a drink? let me take your coat and introduce you around this is my best friend Anxiety she's a bit of a mess but she means well usually this couple over here Intention and Distraction are constantly fighting endless arguments always at odds I don't even know why I invite them to these things this is my co-worker Motivation he's a bit of a talker so steer clear unless you have an hour or a day to waste I'm not sure where she is, Peace I know I invited her at least I think I did ah, it doesn't matter she rarely shows anyway oh! you'll like these guys Clarity and Concentration they spend most of their time in the kitchen they like to keep to themselves but when they pop in to say 'hi' you'll remember it man, this guy, though Sarcasm (he thinks he's much cooler than he actually is) watch your step around him he'll piss you off then wonder why you can't take a joke and finally, my new friend Mindfulness we're just getting acquainted and we may hate each other or we may be in love really, it is too early to tell anyway, welcome to the party, the party of my direct experience.
a blank page is not the goal it never was and it never should have been what good would that do? why was that even a thing? concentrating on the rise and the fall, hoping for the clarity that will sweep me away in its beauty and surprise but its really not like that, is it? do I count? do I note? equanimity escapes me as it always does, so with a tone of self-compassion I begin again striving to do what I love, but why is it simultaneously so easy and so hard? so difficult such a simple task, it can never end but there is joy in the enjoyment, in the attempt, in the breathing, in the practice the recognition is the attention, the failure is the success.
oh! my literary existentialism bordering on despair my whiny and strangulated vocals these towering synthesizers and guitars are my cure this experimental new wave of reggae and ska is evidence of my bad religion as I rise against the sublime, and no doubt birth this clash my adherence to the traditional to the culture that is my heritage and is sorely vexed I will use more words and say more things evidence of my kinks do I embrace this division of joy? can I stomach the social distortion of all the talking heads on my television? this is my nirvana, my jam.