i am moved by discontent. discomfort motivates me, pushes to me continue, to persevere, were i to be cliche. it is what gets me up in the morning, the simple thought that i will make something better today. the thought of leaving behind mistakes, regrets, future tomorrows evitably yielding a fuck up of some sort. leaving behind words, which is hard. words haunt me. my own words mixed with ten million others i’ve heard along the way, over and over, changing just a bit with each round of over. a telephone game. by the end of this day, hell halfway through my commute, the words start to blur, my own are no longer my own no longer distinguishable from all those that have passed through these ears the past 34. years or so.

discontent. it makes me do things. i get up, show up, i care for a minute. write lists that i lose, make plans that i break, countdown to some metamorphosis. i am the insurance of change, good or bad, bet on me. change is the only promise that i haven’t broken, and yes you can guess it’s broken me. i don’t count change and i don’t count on it. my faith lies behind the door i didn’t choose, it is the wrong turn uncorrected and whether or not it is clear to you , whether you spend your days looking or it creeps up from behind it is there in every breath and every skipped heartbeat, every broken heart and every last goodbye. it is in every giving up and every bargain god has gotten. check on that, he’ll loan it out.

a gambler of change. and these nights that are rare now, when i catch a glimpse of the clock its extra large neon status post designed for panic, always running out. days that blur together in some collective second chance. no hope left that they will yield to me. anything. that i desire…

but i digress, i regress, and you don’t know the story. i am more than just a pretty face and i am more than my sadness. you didn’t like that. that is no answer. that is no exit, let alone a grand farewell, well. no more.

held up by hatred, no. all urgency has passed. i spend these last days picking up the pieces. letters and suitcases, broken pieces of each near miss and every failure. into the trash they go. maybe pocket, maybe box, maybe pyre, depending on the mood.

this is surrealust.