South x Southwest

Sometimes, I suppose, we're left to evaluate and take inventory of all the things that make us. Sift through nuances and decisions, details and descriptions. Filter out the unappealing, purge the distasteful. Tune. Adjust for intonation and perfection. Rewrite. And rewrite. And rewrite.
Recreate and recycle. Make new what has worn. Purge. Cleanse. Hide the unattractive under sweatshirts and sweet words.

I've got a head like the sieve these days. And a heart like a doormat.

A mouth like a leaky faucet.


there is a glow
that rises off the parkway
a billion teardrop fog
refracting headlights
homeward bound
and I
am so
enveloped by this
night deprived of sleeping
deeply
lost in dreaming
watching trickles
run in rivers down windows
south by southwest
and missing you dearly


And yet the impossibilty of obtaining that which I have been apart from for so long is more and more obvious every day. The more I think about it, the more certain I am that the promise of companionship is synthetic. That eligible and available are more different than intially expected. That Hollywood endings exist to satiate our neverending thirst for hope in white knights on silver stallions. In princesses and in humanity.

For what it's worth, I blame internet netowrking at least in part for my neurosis.

But back to self-improvement and my inability to perform it. I'm sick of living in drafts. Of being rough around the edges. I lack a luster and reflections are evidence enough of this. Inventory is evidence enough.

Ah, life! Wherefore art thou ever faithful to the fair of skin? Hath thou no eyes with which to see? No heart with which to cradle me and sing me softly, now, to sleep?

Heh. I'm a riot.

Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike