With thoughts of mine shafts, I tunnel around my objectives and pickaxe aimlessly through the pre-cambrian layers until my intent, the goal, the gold is visible, filtered out of the much of the chemical soup we use, the muck of chemical words. I meant “sterile words.” But no going back. No overcorrecting of thoughts as they occur. “I get paranoid of anybody else with a smile so slick.” and nothing happens next. I think about the car full of junk. The anxiety of moving and having too many boxes of things, too little space, the anxiety of frustration, of a falling out motion… Becoming a planet verses becoming a satellite. Having a magnetism that draws others near or orbiting mindlessly like a jellyfish, cosmic cyclical circles, no motive, because there can’t be a motive for a magnetically drugged corpse. Some flinching of the post cardiac nerve. Some clenching of the hand to surprise the surviving relatives.
To the Virgin Islands. Down into spires and scapes, some kind of head burning lingerer of a thought, some thought of bad luck of rent to pay of apartment to despise of the trapped and wounded feeling of a wolf with her leg caught in the evil steel jaws of a marked trap. The whooping of men.
Staring at your next mistake.
Feeling sad and down and trapped and like I can’t accomplish much because of how distracted I get. I can’t finish a sentence without remembering the ambitious ideas I’ve let grow mold. I let rot with neglect. Then the new found books of gorgeous content. Of nature and love and theory.
Disappointed the class size diminished so. Some of the pretty girls left. Good. If they don’t like books and the environment, not for me. The class about mining practices, about plots of land bought for pocket change, the exploratory drilling, the fracking and natural gas, and so called endless supplies. And everything dies and we are still confused and I am totally dictated by emotions that don’t even define anything. They are blurry ones. My emotions are specters. Nothing makes sense. I sometimes feel directionless in my discomfort. I don’t know where it comes from. I am anxious. I don’t know where it comes from. Burning behind the eyes is a mind of its own. Some thwarted purpose of this writing. Some lost connection buried under the golden arches of drilling equipment.
I feel small and futile and listless and dragged around by currents I should learn to resist.
Side note. Lift more weights. Focus on the core.