The cut on the chin

So, a slip and fall can leave a nasty cut if you don't catch yourself.  You realize that it hurts.  You think that you learn the lesson.  You wait and then one magical day, you fall again.  Same trip, same spot on the chin and voila...
A fat new scar in the exact same place as the first, second, third, fourth...
What does it take to not trip?  Where do I learn?  What road do I travel to not hit that same rut?
I don't know.  Until I find out.  How about a set of pads and a helmet?

What level of Frustration

On what planet do they have no concept of privacy?
Why is it that I can't be part of something without having my entire heart and mind splayed open for the entire fucking world to abjectly ponder over and still tell me that my OPINION is wrong.  It's my opinion.  How can that be wrong? It's how I feel about something.  Feelings aren't debatable.  Information is open to discussion, not how I feel...
And now I feel frustration.
Frustration for all the nit-picking. All the posturing and preening.  I feel frustration for all the people who can't open their mouths and scream at the idiot jack-hole scum sucking hemorrhoid lipped fuck nut that is able to be smug at their expense.
And now I feel relief.

Life sashays on by.

It really is quite interesting that we spend, work, eat, sleep, exercise, push, struggle, relax, eat, sleep, eat, work, struggle, applaud, weep, contemplate, sleep, think, work, push, pull, stand up, work, struggle and work at life to the point that we don't remember where we are going. 
Every morning, we should wake up and look for the continuance of that impossible goal that we seek to attain. Riches, life, fame, knowledge.  It doesn't make a difference.  Just have a goal.  One that you can't ever hope to achieve in one lifetime.  Worry about the little things just enough to solve them...
Solve...

It is the root of solvent.  To make things disappear.  Go away.  Remove the item from your presence.  Make way for the impossible.

What the hell?

No, I will not feel guilty. I will not apologize. You were the one who stepped across the line that you didn't know was there and when I pointed to it and said no...then you recoiled.
I thought that we were friends...yes, and friends don't do what you did. they let you live your life...I thought that we were cool...yes, and cool doesn't jerk you around because I pointed out the line that you stepped across and now I can't wait to be face to face again...because now you think that you know...but you don't.

Remember, but never forget.

Some people tend to move through life with a dire grasp on memories, as if the memory is what fuels them into the future. Some memories are better forgotten, so that when it does come back, the sting of loss, the smile of laughter, the twinge of regret is still potent. Look back only when you can't remember the lesson.

Move forward with your eyes forward. That is the only way to see that wall that you are about to run into.

What honor?

Where is there honor? Where dignity? Who holds the keys to unchain my sense of principle?
I think of the times that I have shown my nature, or lack thereof and shudder at what I molded myself to be. What things I have become known for...I leave them behind. Start anew and forge myself to something better. Harden my resolve to be more than I was...
I choose a direction and defer all else to others. I will be myself.

Education of a question

I sometimes think that people talk just to hear themselves. This isn't a bad thing. The just don't let themselves hear what they are saying. We feel we need verification, agreement that what we say is right. We have become conditioned to feel that an answer is only right when someone else tells us that it is. Where did we lose the ability to be wrong? Is it such a bad thing? If we were all right all the time, who would we have to argue against?

The sound of the rain

It's the sound of the rain that brings back the memory of running. Running as a child, an adult. It was warm rain in earlier days. Now the cold brings shivers, a numbness that assures me that I am alive and capable of feeling.

I almost always want to stand in the rain...cold and reassuring that I am.

How not to be

I used to be...
I had...
I did...
I once...

These are the starts of the stories that I told. I never forgot the intimate smells, visions and textures. Those are the details that make a story wonderful, yours. The problem is that I sometime (more often than not) really never was where I said I was, doing what I said I was doing, with who I said that I was doing, what I wasn't doing, with.
You follow?

Well, that seems to have to change. I can't be two. I can only be one.