A Few Grains

Look at the closet. Spring, summer, fall. Yesterday in winter, or was it six months ago? Look in the mirror. Sagging, tired, pale. Didn't I just send this sweater to the cleaners? Quilt on the bed. Fat covers. Year passed in five days and in all its cruelty doesn't make me blind to the changes. Can't lie. The one truth with no escape. Sadly I move forward feeling less alive. Each day one more step. My walk slower but days faster. Energy levels off as life continues the unsteady course. Misunderstood and less hopeful than before. Memories have their purpose, good and bad. I will bottle up the good and stack them on top of bad.

Leave

Yes, I quit. Got up, walked away and said to myself that my time is better spent honoring the muse privately and not spend precious credit hour dollars to sit among those who were fortunate enough to get it for free. A demoralized group; didn't see the forest for the trees; spoke in foreign tongues created by the great electronic highway. Vocabulary minimal. Writing nothing, ignoring the man in charge, they know more than he, after all. The arrogance overwhelmingly painting the writing on the wall. Not how I spend my precious time. Too old for the sport of putting up with disrespect. I have my own demons to burn. Yet now I'll wonder what assignments the class will not do, but act like they did, or if they'll see the light of their ways and drop the course for other reasons than mine. But they have time to explore new roads, test the waters while tainting them along the way. I do not. My time left is all I've got to prove to myself that my mark is worth leaving, not squandering.

Wild Times

Sometimes I wonder if I'm just a psychotic accident. My ideas and moods changing faster than the seasons, almost as unpredictable as the weather. They take me by surprise. And then I wonder if others view me as this wild and crazy mess who doesn't act her age. But then I really don't care what the others think. They don't live in my skin. And they haven't stepped in my footprint. Perhaps they are the crazy ones. They are in need of deep therapy. Or maybe they should try wearing their hearts in a place other than on their sleeve, a place for no one to see but to discover. What is wrong with me? I can question myself and I do so a daily basis, sometimes twenty-four hour. And just when I think I know myself I find that I never do. Is it a form of growth? Am I ever evolving and actually succumb to the wild changes tormenting my need to be normal? Admit it. Yes, we all change, but only a few recognize the beauty of the tree growing inside the leaf. Only a few can smell the rain before it arrives three days later. And only a few are like minded enough to be called trustworthy in this realm of hysteria.