In the growing winter, such things have become apparent:
We are less likely now to talk in “we”s and “us”s, more likely to talk in “I” and “you”. The first person cooperative pronouns are going out of fashion.
There is this growing space that grows nothing but the wrong kind of resistance. A lazy persistence. A lack of any doing. We talk a lot and do so little. Thinkers or time-wasters?
The sun is starting to show in these adult lines on our faces in dark frowns instead of smiles. We are dying at 40 these days. How long will you live without cancer and a hope?
A slow glowing ember can last all night, if tended. I may be burning inside, but I’m all covered in this ash. Can you tell?
The grey rain pushes me more than my own resolve. What am I resolved to do? Wait without an honest exit plan. We’re unraveling and we call it fun.
Those shutters will be painted in no time. Will you live within them or die slow?
Got a better plan? One at all? A schedule for useless bike rides that can end in your death?
At thirty, are you ready and willing to die? In the fire or out? Rolled around in ash?
I’m waking to a new sense burgeoning inside of me. Where it leads, I’m not at all sure.
Do I have a plan yet?
I sure as hell better get one.
The Spring is soon on the step.
Will I walk into it or fall?
Only this time will tell.
Bucky, I see where you in your silent reveries may have gone wrong. I am not the trimtab, but this whole ship is a part of me and I am sailing along on it. I may be a hand to turn it, but can I turn alone?
Not at all.
Ciclakumei is the key and vida is the answer.
Do you know what I mean?
I will try.