Tried and true to reason, some things are better left omitted from the manuscript. Regardless, the gut feeling is always the right feeling, and in any event, it is a promise to yourself that is on the brink of being broken, and all you can do is sit there and stare out into the nothingness that is a grey board covered with papers, post-its, and reminders for things you’d never really forget anyway, but smack on up there just so you look busy and on top of things. Let the countdown begin, you think, it’s only a matter of time before it all unfolds into the debacle you know it’ll be, and yet, like the ignoramus you are you garnish whatever muster you have and sprinkle on a little hope as you carry on into the bold unknown. Why? Because that’s what people do, even though you, specifically, don’t want to—no, rephrase, you don’t know how to.
Cut to two years ago when you were aglow with the spirit and vivacity to endeavor farther then you ever thought you could. You opened up the toolbox and plotted away, building the perfect schemata to fit the mold dictated by such an endeavor. The result? Nothing. Nothing but it being thrown back at you with the caption “It’s not good enough”, and a feeling.
Cut to now. That same feeling. You sit in a livid match of thought, while you stare at the grey board. The feeling is back. To learn from the past and jump on it, or to let it slide and find yourself in the position of being captioned once again. It’s a tricky lesson, this thing called life, and you can’t seem to shake the feeling that either way you are fucked. Not just any fucked, proper fucked.
Cut to three and a half years ago when the caption was “It’s just not worth it to me”.
Abscond isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
But you sit, like the jackass you are, and revel in the post-mortem glory of whatever chance you had at being saved from the inevitable six-peat you are now deciding to collide with. I’m overreacting, you think to yourself, and the feeling that you’re desperately trying to shake recoils, for a moment, and then comes on even stronger. It’s the feeling of a chance just not being worth the effort you’re proposing. It’s the feeling that nothing good can ever come, and even still, you sit there with that silly little smirk on your face at the prospect of things going as planned. You like the idea of pulling out the tool box: building the perfect schemata again. You’d sell your soul to the devil, you think, if it would make it all smooth sailing, instead of having to barter with the demons of hope and, even worse, faith. You’d give it all away to prescribe to the opiate aura of mutual adulation forever.
Cut to last year when the caption was “There’s a lot better.”
It’d be scrumptious, you think as you walk down the unlit hallway. Much like your sanity, the hallway has been abandoned but for a tiny straggler trying to find a way to make it all connect. The straggler? Trust. Hope and faith, they are easily forged, but trust? Trust is a goddamn miracle. You set up the fight. Weighing in at each and every shambled captioned moment and its affect on you, in the right corner is that Feeling, and weighing in at a miniscule obscure miracle in the left corner is Trust. You side with Trust.
Injudicious isn’t the right word, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
i don't know how long i can hold my heart in two
