Too drained


...to write much. And I think I am still somewhat wrapped
in self-preservation mode to write anything coherent.

More later.

***************


Sometimes you choose a path and sometimes the path
chooses you. It is as if it has a life of its own.

I am walking through briars, knowing my extremities
are wounded along the walk--there is so much to take
in, so many other facets of being yet to unfold that the cuts
and scrapes and bleeding don't matter that much.

Unfolding is not such a beautiful thing. The undersides
are many times coated in slime, fragile and not pretty
to view. And sometimes, the unfolding yields an even
less attractive progeny.

I'm not sure at this point if the viewing is all that
important. I'm even less sure that the
walk matters all that much either.

I feel certain only about this: I shall keep walking.

I am lighting candles tonight. I am going outside
to view the stars. I am going to sit in the cool autumn
evening until I get cold enough to come back inside.

I am going to eat a s***load of junk. Pizza. Uh-huh.

Some wine. Most likely some bad for my lungs stuff, too.

And I am going to look at the stars.