One Out Of A Hundred Days
May 29, 2019•623 words
It's all or nothing. Sitting with my best companions in the world. Or ever. My 3 cats. I am a hermit of my mind. My mind is damaged. Goods or good or not. I breathe. Existence. It's not a fresh breath. Stale old air. My cats love me. They are comfortable. They comfort me.
It's Tuesday. It could be the day before. Or the day after. There are no commas. Just periods and spaces. 67 years is not long for a death march. In the grand scheme of things there is no scheme.
Emptying your mind into a daiquiri is a hell of a way to make friends. Better than meds? Of course. Alcohol is given by the gods. Stupor is not stupid. It opens who we are. Really. Do I believe it? No. But I relieve it of its responsibility. A stream of consciousness only flows from a rum spring as it pools in your blood.
Here comes my old man. Cat #1. He loves me too.
I need to walk. I live to walk. To outpace the demons. But there's nowhere to walk to anymore. Running out of places. A house has to be lived in. A holding cell. Sentenced.
There's a need to break free. When you lose your need to, you lose. Guessing that's the outcome. The old man purrs in my lap. He knows more than I do. He doesn't need dates or the time of day because he will sleep when he wants to. He exists because he is a cat. I exist to suffer. Others would try to convince me otherwise because they have a religion and its promoters that want everyone to believe that their god loves them, even though their books are a record of otherwise. God regrets them and us. Continually. Eternally.
I can't give it all. It's not evening. It's not the first day. It's not good. Goodness and mercy don't follow me. Later will remain today. Somebody died. I do not want to visit. Who wants to visit the dead? Dust to dust? A chemical time-bomb. An unwanted act of self-preservation. He looks so natural. Doesn't make any difference to dirt. You're protected from that breath of fresh air. But there's been nothing fresh about it since day one.
To be quieted is to strive for. Don't cry out. Nobody is listening anyways. They are judging. Vengeance is theirs. They are so much better they reek of success. Go ahead and judge, because you are judged. See? I'm using commas. The challenge is on. This might go on all day. But who's counting.
Take a breath.
I have no name. I have not been called. I perform at its bidding. To write before thinking it through to perfection is as hard as I thought. This may be the quietest morning I have experienced in ages. I am using I more aren't I? It all gets back to you doesn't it? God I hate questions.
Don't get too cute. Ugly is the personification of beauty. I'm correcting errors. Don't correct. Don't correct me. The id screams. It is not I, but the devil is in the details. Too cute. See how easy that was? I hate questions because all in all there are no answers. There's only the agreeable terms of engagement. I do not engage with the world. It tolerates me. Corrected at least three times in two sentences. Stop it. Please stop it.
That may be why I took up this writing challenge. This may be the only sentence that makes sense.
If only if.
This is not a challenge. This is not even a day. This is.
Acceptance takes courage not to do anymore damage.