It risks doing your head in constantly, but you have the ability to make a plan and stick to it, and frankly, that's more than you're owed. I started writing something else, but that turned into something else yet again, so here I am, giving it another shot. I tease and beckon the words from my mind, hoping for a shift in focus. Good things come unbidden. I should take a walk.
One thing that never ceases to amaze me, in life, is how far down the road you can get if only you make a fucking plan. It sounds easy, but only because they're words in a formation we're familiar with. By no means an easy modus operandi.
What's the plan? Hope for the best? And what if that's not good enough? I would hate to end up fifty km down the line, and realize I could've gone a hundred if only I'd known how.
I found this in my drafts, from some 5-6 weeks ago. Guess I chickened out on account of not actually having a plan. Truth be, I'm still making it up as I go along, only aren't we all? When things get better, is your anxiety supposed to be exacerbated or dulled? Feels a bit like I slipped outta my own hand, and now I'm spin-spin-spinning, and I recognize these old battlegrounds, even though I like to pretend to myself otherwise. I'm gearing up to ramble enough that I scare the last friends I had away.
Except, what if they stay?
I cry more over the people who stayed, than over the ones who left.
Lear with a bust-up skull. I glare and spit at the cold-growing sand. Deserted beaches have a different kind of charm during bellowing storm, and I paint my face red, but it won't be enough to keep the demons away.
Consider creativity, but also lack thereof. Curse of the mighty, or just plain old evil eye? Grin at me from behind the curtains of the uphill witch's hut. If I tell you it's nonsense, will you be less worried than if I say this is just what my head looks like? I should've never stopped writing, because when I did, I slipped inside the nightmares I normally keep out, and now writing from within won't do much good. In the absence of problems, am I creating my own hill to die on?
My life, which has been gathering dust around me, now shaken up, and shaken by its own tail. Bread. How much more poison can I ingest before I'm forced to bow my head in resignation? It could just be I'm spoiled grounds.
You must figure out the plan. Even if it's a made-up plan, even if it's sad. I used to hop in and out of the chaos quite easily, expect lately, increasingly, the heels of my boot have been blurring the line.
Don't realize how fragile, how prone to breaking, the faucets inside your mind. Lickspit test, but might I still blow, if it don't swell up?
Observe. Toe the edge, looksee how easy it is to let slip. Just 'cause it ain't happened to you don't mean you're in any way better off. It simply means it hasn't happened to you. Observe. Write your poem. Get out.
That has to be the plan. There has to be a plan.
Not every man deserves your picture on his map.
