These Days

These past months has left me jaded and uninspired, or as much as I can be of those things at my age. I can't be moved much. Maybe I've put myself in this position though. Of course, it is so hard to get comfortable, let alone allow my mind to grow, if my heart is somewhere else. Is that trite? Is that naive? It doesn't matter much now. The fact is that this is that I am where I am. There's no turning back now. But I am still feeling stale. Like a the foot of a loaf of bread that's been sitting on your kitchen counter, next to the toaster, for far too long. When was the last time I was moved so forcefully by art, or creativity, or whatever you want to call it? Moments ago, I suppose. Otherwise I wouldn't be here. It wasn't the piece of art itself, though. It's what it reminded me of, primarily of myself. Of how I used to talk, and carry myself. I was a survivor. Now, I'm just along for the ride.

Oh, but no more. I need to freshen up. Here's me taking the cold towel to my bloodshot eyes. I'm waking up, turning the kettle on. It's time to get my hands dirty.

By way of the Green Line Bus, I will return.