Improving on the rough draft of feeling lost, and daft.
The trail of bread crumbs I scattered behind me as I walked along has long since been picked apart and disengaged by crows and other scavangers. I’m not scared of finding my way back, because I never want to go back.
I’m too far ahead to pick up any pieces I might have left in my own broken home, and who knows where the summer winds have carried the ashes of the things I’ve already burnt out on in my thoughts.
The eternal cerebral crossroads leave my options broad; To become insane, or to stay the same, neither seem too out of reach.
The audience is screaming my name, telling me which foot to put in front of the other and tossing tomatoes and dirty old words against me as I pace back and forth along the stage. But they can’t help me, nothing really can.
Improving on the rough draft of feeling lost and daft will be my lifes work, my greatest memoire, the one that they’ll say I worked so hard on after I’m finally in the ground for good.
For now I continue to revise; Another day, another couple slow and steady steps towards something in the distance my tired eyes can’t even make out yet.
When I get there I won’t write, I won’t call, and I won’t look back on the things I’m trying so hard to bury under the dirt beneath my footsteps, but I will hold the hand of someone I love and we will laugh at where I was, and adore where we are, as everything else burns down to nothing in the distance we no longer care anything about.
