So lost. So-laced.
There are so many wrinkles in my knuckles nowadays. So many lifelines that speak on so much self-induced stress. I've worked manual jobs, I've worked office, I'm working a physical one now...and I see my hands, and the roughness that has come to them, and the wear that each day adds and I've thought all it takes is a little more lotion, a little more care, a massage here and there, and the age will wear away. But I don't get that it's just as prevalent in my visage. It becomes just as obvious in my face, in my eyes, in my demeanor, and not out of anything flagrant...but I worry so much about my hands that I'm damn sure gonna show worry on my face. Not that it wasn't there to begin with, but it all adds up. I hate ending sentences with prepositions.
So one more thing for me to worry about; one more thing for me to stress about and deliberate on and consider. And get mad at. Sloppiness. Lack of consideration and awareness. Lack of awareness really fucks with me. It's so easy to pay attention. But we don't. But I don't, rather.
I have woven a mighty fabric throughout my life, intertwined with the people that I've come to love, and I think have come to love me too. This fabric is stronger than anything I have ever felt. This fabric, at times, is the only thing real to me and by far the only thing I can cling to. I rely on each of these threads as one relies on an IV. And I recognize that there is a back and forth, that as much as they give me life, they also feel and perhaps feed on that life force, but at the very least they recognize that it is there and will absolutely feel the pull when that IV is detached. So now I have all these plugs in me. And over the years I've been slowly pulling these plugs out. Slowly unraveling my blanket, string by string, in the most initially innocuous but unavoidably thorough manner. We can build castles in the sky...
I'm just waiting until I can yank that last string. But I can't stop thinking about what will remain, and then my fingers become too weak for that last pull. And my spirit is too weak to consider anything else. But that's okay. Because no one will ever know about this.
-Andus Toohey
So one more thing for me to worry about; one more thing for me to stress about and deliberate on and consider. And get mad at. Sloppiness. Lack of consideration and awareness. Lack of awareness really fucks with me. It's so easy to pay attention. But we don't. But I don't, rather.
I have woven a mighty fabric throughout my life, intertwined with the people that I've come to love, and I think have come to love me too. This fabric is stronger than anything I have ever felt. This fabric, at times, is the only thing real to me and by far the only thing I can cling to. I rely on each of these threads as one relies on an IV. And I recognize that there is a back and forth, that as much as they give me life, they also feel and perhaps feed on that life force, but at the very least they recognize that it is there and will absolutely feel the pull when that IV is detached. So now I have all these plugs in me. And over the years I've been slowly pulling these plugs out. Slowly unraveling my blanket, string by string, in the most initially innocuous but unavoidably thorough manner. We can build castles in the sky...
I'm just waiting until I can yank that last string. But I can't stop thinking about what will remain, and then my fingers become too weak for that last pull. And my spirit is too weak to consider anything else. But that's okay. Because no one will ever know about this.
-Andus Toohey
posted by Andus T. at 00:01
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