Often with sting

Sometimes I am inappropriate. I am not a formal and well-pressed flower, ready for display in a shadow box. I laugh out loud when something is off kilter, often jarring other people. But I get my point across. Quickly. Often with sting.

Damn the continuous cycle of life not slowing down so we can absorb our lessons and dramas, so we can pick apart the few bits of meat and toss the bones as if scrying for our futures. Where in daily life are we really allowed to catch our breath, to sit perfectly still and say no thank you to the absurdity of shit thrown upon us? Oh, for one simple day of bliss, of choosing to lounge in bed to savor a book or a lover, to sip wine at daybreak instead of twilight, to step out of the confines of what passes for normal and to be the foolish and yearning self inside.

But the twenty four hour window opens and closes, the same each day, offering the same options. To wake, to work, to dread, to fear, to suffer in silence the ideals of others, to cringe at loss of opportunity, to rant at injustices. To fall from exhaustion of the mask, the weight it carries day after day, the false smile offering no clue to the real you.

So the seams start to burst as all the dreams past pile up, waiting for the bonfire to burn them off, waiting for the ash to be swept away, to make room for more empty space, more lifeless fodder. To release the space only to be filled again with dreams deferred.

This ache bears no witness today. This drive offers no sacrifice to the sinners or savers. This soul is lost in the howling wind, eyes closed in absence of goals, capable of flight no more.