I can’t help it.

Sometime you can’t help the feelings.

Sometimes denial is like trying to forcefully kick a waterfall to receding, and going back the way it came.

I’m compelled to feel, when my senses are assaulted, no, not assaulted, but forcefully reawakened by invigoration, reminiscence, and nostalgic ferocity.

I listen to this song and feel my youth clawing at my calloused, semi-dead heart.  It screams at my current self “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?” Why are you tossing your essence into the smoldering oblivion of complacency. Where is that fire?  Where is the result ignoring, raw acceptance of now?

That fire, where has it gone? That burning energy, why does it take so much to stoke? Why is it so much easier to die slowly than burn, burn, burn, burn, burn……

I clench my fists and see the fire run red through my knuckles.  Clench yours, and whether you feel it now, you’ve been there with me.  Your purpose fueled the blood in your veins, and passion stoked desire in your heart.  And now you have a couch, a fucking couch. Think upon that statement. You have a “stable relationship” and a comfortable home. You “have” a bedroom set that you think works with the mood that you can work with, maybe a job you can tolerate, and a partner that can meld with you most of the time.

Your tangibles are vacuous.

Youth.

Abandon.

No sadness, but recklessness.

I don’t want to play the part in your capitulation play, nor do you wish to play the part in my nihilistic theater.   There must be a way to capture the fervor, emotion, and wanton optimism of youth and meld it with the despair, apathy, and languid forfeiture of getting old.

I’m dying.

And as the seconds pass since my admission, nothing has changed.

We are both dying.

But we don’t have to live like we are dying.

There is so much fire in us.

There is so much fire in us.

There is so much fire in us.

There is so much fire in us.

Good night.

J

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cH2512J7GCY