My Fucking Feelings. 9/12/’17

I look at this picture and see that I have aged. The white in my hair, wrinkles in my face, angles softened by years of wind. Coffee no longer taste the same. I used to think it was clever to say the picket fence has splinters. But not having a worn welcome mat at 43 stings. On one hand, I have the kind of freedom teenagers run away for. On the other, a piercing loneliness of someone who travels barefoot.

The container of life is made of hard plastic. I’ve tried chewing through. You can’t. You must adapt. Life will not. Time is unforgiving. Money is slippery. Women are still confusing. And the past will always haunt you. It doesn’t matter if you’ve looked under the bed. Memories don’t come without feelings. But as the white on your teeth fades, so does your fear. I guess that’s the good news. The bright panic has become a dull

flicker and the things that were big don’t really matter. So you live sky and soil. Dreams and moments.

And not focusing on everything in between means you can finally breathe. And with breath comes the here and now, moments and the ability to see beauty in a blade of grass. And maybe that’s what this is all about. Maybe this is what the return looks like.

-Angry