what’s eating the poor man’s spirit?

If you’re looking for answers, you’re on the wrong path. All you will encounter, and I speak from experience, are questions without answers. Divorced and apart, a congregation of questions, a meeting of the unknowns, packed to the hallway, with a bagel basket and paper plates and a coffee dispenser. They mingle and chat, and sit on coffee-stained chairs. Beneath them, the floor creaks, and the curtains smell of cigarette smoke. Old dusty books, untouched, on a book shelf, unmoved in years. What are your struggles, and what are your fears?

I’m closer to forty than I was to twelve. Guess we had a falling apart, age floats us away like the waves of the ocean. One minute we’re close to the shore, the next we’re drifting away. Out in the open where everything’s far. Happens so slow, so sudden, you forget to remark. Where did I go? Where did I start?

Born with a chronic malaise of discontent and disfavor, wandering semi-lifeless through a plate I can’t savor. The pallettes all wrung, wasted, and still I’ve managed a decent attendance. Though here and there I am absent, and conversations lead to a dead end. With me, it can end out of nowhere. There’s no surprise, none none none.

When my mom bought the bike, I thought wow, what a surprise. But did I deserve it? Now I think about gifts, and I can’t get excited. No, no. Not that thing. Not that either. That thing ain’t the thing I need, but what is it that you want? Sometimes I go thinking I’ve just forgotten what fun is, what’s experimentation? What’s with regiments, routines? The awkward part is being stuck in a groundhog’s day. Did I watch a good movie, recently? Oh, but I remember, when we spoke on the phone you said something about a book you’d read recently. The Transformational Power of Fasting. Stephen Harrod Buchner, or something like that. But I have trouble practicing restraint.

Do saints have trouble too? I have trouble writing a sentence. Each word, like a heavy stump, I cannot move it even if I broke it to pieces. Writer’s block. Maybe I am just tired of life, maybe I can pause it for a moment. It’s all so freaking continuous. Like the flow of the waves of the ocean.

Does everything mirror the ocean? Maybe I want to watch a documentary on microbial life. Or life before the dinosaurs, before anything. What am I made of? The same atoms as whomever no longer exist. Who am I made of? Eerie.

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