It Always Works Out

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And in the stillness, the relative stillness, of a Saturday night drive home, the new paradigm is of panic.  It’s all in my head and I find zero comfort in watching this weed start to grow while my machete has yet to be sharpened.  All woodsy and twining, straining toward my throat.  I am not a danger, but I am close.  It is not the driving, but the darkness, or rather the light against the darkness.   A boggle becomes a panic and I hold my breath against the truth that I feel, rather than the lie that I am, for a moment, quite blind.

Still, I get home.  How do you complain when the end result is the same as it ever was? Even if you feel as competent in your daily life as a two year-old?

Again, I suspect, I gotta get off the caffeine.  All I drink is coffee and then a soda, then more soda, then a few scant ounces of water before bed.  I gotta get on the water.  How do gottas evolve into anything other than shouldves?  By happening once and then happening again.  I can do this if I give time to it and less time to my thoughts about it.

Yesterday, the store co-workers ooehed and aahed over the new coffee clerk.  Adorable! The older women circled around and intoned. Needing to assert my viability even if the whole premise is laughable, I strode over and ordered a cappuccino.  He was a man-bunny, weedy, handsome hipster who had yet to be trained on the nuances of being a barista(o?).  He looked young to me.  Distracted and a bit overwhelmed, even if he didn’t care that he was overwhelmed.  He couldn’t see me even if I was lit on fire.  This is my conjecture.  I did not ask him what, if anything, he could see. I mostly just stared him down and looked outside at the thin drapery of snow that still remained on tree branches and went back to work. The constant convention of female co-workers intoned: What did you think?   Not bad, I said, and sipped at the impenetrable layer of foam.

The RP guy runs through my thoughts.  It’s a quick jog, really, with a single loop right back to where it begins. Whenever something doesn’t work out, you were spared from it.  It has not ended.  It is simply on a permanent hiatus that can be broken at a moment.  I should not allow for this clause, the outlying possibility that any moment, life can turn on its head if you give it the room to somersault.  I should be clear on value and worth.  But, A loneliness.  A sense of the room being cold and big and quiet, and of death being this same way.  This, too, can turn.  Is it a devastating burden? Or, as I see it tonight, the comfort of a mind having seen the worst and holding true.  I can be this alone.  I can be this alone for this long and still smile.  Still know why I smile.  Still look forward to smiling for the sake of doing it, rather than having a soul to cause it.

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