Move move move. That's what I hafta do. If not by ship or aeroplane then by jump jumping down my head, all muggy with whatsits and whatsnots, tangled by LRECs and UUs and pluses and losses, but not a whole lot – of the good stuff. The fantastic stuff, the incredibly gross and wonderfully crude, the half-thought images and the imagined thoughts: dragons from picture books, all my past exes and the things they took, the voyages, the trips to neverno-alwaysyes-land and the rose-hued sands. I need to replenish, to dive into the murky depths of forgetfulness and comb the cluttered floor, maybe find the oyster, tight-lipped around its pearl.
Pearls of wisdom – I don't need those, I just want other things besides cash flows and interest rates. They're fine and good I've understood, but this other side of me, the dark side of the moon, the kid floating on a balloon, lazing in a hammock during a monsoon – the side that slid down a ravine and came out to the river, smoked shish with nomads, sticky fingers dipping in the chicken stew, the ever-long wanderluster, singing on the mountains, clapping by the sea, lost in the things that excites, the what mights, the best kind of remembrances to fight for.
So I'm fighting to remain paradoxical, to be Peter Pan but still a man, a cog with a cause, a traveler with only an armchair. It's good... the angst is coming back. It's familiar, like a coat that I thought was suffocatingly hot, but now, I realize, is not. I just need to use it in the right way – abuse it actually, wring from it all the inspiration, insipid and glorious and staggeringly heartbreaking and hell, even the mundane, for roses are only a step above weeds, and weeds, I think take offense to that.
And if I don't move, I'll become one of those people, the ones who hang onto their peak by recounting their happier days when those days were just as stagnant as now. Broken winged angels, they slowly succumbed to the rigidity of life's efficient game, where the cycle of borrow, buy, and want turn and turn til one day it'll spin us all off our axis, spinning into the dark void where nothing moves. We'll float in the womb of nothingness, thinking about how we once did things, how we once actually thought that life was going to turn out like so and so and everything was open (open and free and possible!)... except that we slowly closed the doors... We stopped moving, exploring, hurting, revolting, loving, cherishing – exchanging that beautiful transience for the solidity of meeting expectations, of reasonable results, of desiring less because it's more attainable.
Move move move. Into the broken brained silences where my thoughts murmur and breathe, like something spectacular, I say.