Remember as much as you can; soon it will be lost. Inertia is a short con. Drag the tinsel from the ceiling fan, the holidays are over. Look at the sky and pretend you can fly. Fall into the couch, spiraling down until nothing means anything anymore. Or everything means everything. Soft-tongued sycophants guide the way. Deeper.
It is a golden sphere, and it hangs on the regret you feel. You want to hold it, but it is cold...too cold for your smooth hands. He said that everything would turn out great. He lied to you, and you are trying to figure out how you could have ever been so foolish. But the foolishness was innocence and, really, you just want it back.
Maybe you can manage it. Control it. Some people can't. Some people wake up with cigarette burns on their pale chests, caved in. They are chasing something different.
You lie to yourself and you hate yourself and, fuck, I think that's the way our forefathers wanted it. All this nonsense. 98% of the shit you are surrounded by is worthless. But that 98% is loud, brother. It's persistent. And the 2% of life that is beautiful just can't compete.
Run until you can't run for the gasping. Reach until your arms are numb from grasping. Clutch your hands around its throat and wait for the sparkle lights to illuminate the night. Run, motherfucker, run.
I don't know all that much about it. It's a sham. It's a greased pig. It's fucking huge. You can't understand it. You can't wrap your arms around it. You nod your head and run your smooth hands over your face, press your eyes until the fun starts...explosions.
It was a long time ago, but the aftertaste lingers. It is bitter, but you roll it on your tongue, waiting for some kind of payback. Some kind of payoff. You feel sorry for yourself when you shouldn't. In your mind, there is a cage full of budgerigars singing, paint splashes and primping.
Close your eyes and kill your brain if that's what you need. I understand, man. I really do. I'm waiting for the call. I have my black suit cleaned and pressed and ready to go. I am prepared to see her there, pointed eyes casting blame that we know is unwarranted. But let it be. She needs it. She needs to think it was our fault, not hers. So, let it be.
Your life has been a hair shirt. I get it. I can't say I'll forgive because I won't. But I'll understand, and that's more than you probably deserve. More than any of us do. Step into the darkness, tepid, dipping a toe into oblivion. Smile as you go...don't let it hurt. You're smart enough to make it painless, and there will be plenty of pain, regardless. Some sharks die if they stop moving. Maybe you've been dead for years. I'll tell your story; I have the ink in my skin. And it will fade like the memories, but it will always be there, like a kid in the back of the class scribbling for all he's worth.