My mind fevered, influenza racks the joints.
Thoughts rush in, jumbled, lay where they fall.
Day is night, night is for insomnia and ragged breathing.
Life as I’m living it, isn’t worth the trouble.
I’m tired of trying anymore.
Time to make some changes – but what?!
All of my life I have sought to belong and I have yet to truly succeed.
I’ve tried my best to be a part of one society or another and I’ve never found real acceptance.
I’ve tried to be a part of the military, the ranch and rodeo life, cowboy poet, photographer, manager, firefighter, law enforcement officer, emergency medical technician and instructor.
Even broadcasting and writing are now closed to me as I can find no employment in these areas.
Earlier, I stepped out front of the house, searching for a place that might offer me a bit of creativity as I struggle to write anything worth meaning.
I stood at the hood of my truck for several minutes.
I fear that I am losing my gift, my ability to go anywhere and write anytime.
I truly hate struggling this way.
My words have lost their taste, like a bowl of white rice, seasoned with a flat salt; utterly tasteless to the palette.
Thoughts are as dry rot, good only for the produced dust that not even the termite finds useful.
I have gone the way of the earthworm, hunting its’ hole, hiding from Spring’s Red Breasted Robin.
Nature has its course and my writing is following suit.
Without truth, frankness, pain and a strong lack of fear, words become nothing and neither are the page and ink used to produce them.
My mind requires some stimulation, otherwise I have no intellectual spark from which to run.
That’s how boring my life has become.
The only gleam gained is by the glare of the television screen or some flash of novelty from social media.
I need action!
But how to acquire action when I haven’t the money and the dogs need looking after?
There are no answers for me as I ask this question yet again.
As I think about all the clutter in my life and what to do to make sense of it, to order it, to organize it, the rules must be simple: keep my writings, artwork, cameras, computer and a few old books.
That would clean out that backroom in a hurry.
But where do I find the energy, the desire, the will?
Maybe it’s the little things that need looking after.
The tiny acts of living — like creating a grocery list;
The scramble of dog hair as it skitters across the wood floor;
Five heaping scoops of ground coffee to three huge glasses of water in the maker;
Watching dormant grass fade from green to yellow to brown;
The sound of my lock-blade knife as it snaps open with a sharp click;
How each dog’s foot fall sounds different one from the other.
King Solomon is right – everything is utterly worthless.
Not all attempts at humor will be funny.
Sometimes there is too much truth involved.
Not even laughter can hide all the pain, real and imagined.