No Rest For The Wicked

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The trouble with having an all-too real life
is that, eventually, it interferes with the virtual one. I have not been posting for days now, not because of a lack of things to say, but rather due to the lack of time in which to say them.

Poetry has suffered as well. I have this poem percolating inside my head, but it cannot get out. I imagine it trying to escape, a swirling of words up there, leaking out into my blood, boiling in my veins, trapped like a swarm of tiny, glistening fish.

My body took a beating and kept on running, although last Friday it gave out on me, letting a fever hold sway over my faculties, sending me to bed delirious with gray visions.

Work has been a trying time, taking up all my energies and most of my humor. It is a challenge, sure, but the fun part sometimes dwindles to less than zero when you have to contend with a thousand and one neuroses.

All in all, this rant only homes in on the fact that I desperately need a vacation.

Oh, to see clear blue skies uncluttered by power lines! Oh, to hold a cold drink in hand, listen to the true laughter of friends easing away the blahs. To see the pattern of stars and maybe a big yellow moon, bulbous and authentic in its fullness. To wake up late in the mornings and not have to rush through the day like a windup toy. To lie in bed reading and day-dreaming, no worries, no cares, with nothing and no one to disturb the mind’s random flights of fancy.

Soon, my lovely, soon.


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