This is it

Three days before the end. When I had already started doubting myself, my beliefs, my own made-up unrealistic theories of life, and my tendency of finding connections among seemingly, obviously unrelated things.
Three days. The click, like a spring jumping from inside a machine, felt with an almost imperceptible jolt, but without disturbing the mechanism, dull in its daily functioning.
And the feeling. Long awaited yet unexpected. The answer preceding the questions. The knowing.

"Fate, it seems, has a way of catching up to you, of balancing the universe."

And here we go again.

Retrieval

The play... written so long ago, yet feels like written hastily overnight after we met. Or haven't.
I found so much of myself in it that it's bewildering. The skeptic and the believer, the criminal and the savior, chaos and fate... the puzzle.

"Where have we met before?"

This is you. And this is me.
What will I do after I figure you out? How long will I stay this time?
Please make it difficult.

So many secrets
that I've become a secret to myself.
Stories buried deep under heaps of resentment
no forgiveness for me
or from me
while my hips move along
forward
onward
forth

hungry for new passions
thirsty for new songs
child of a new life
reborn with the dawn.

Photo by IamMarvin

Tools

A car is a tool. An engine and four wheels that take you from one place to another. If it's electric or a hybrid, you have my respect. If not, don't brag, or I'll get out and walk it off.
My body is a tool. Takes me from birth to death.

Take Care...

I'm slipping away silently, hoping that you'd notice. I take small steps away while looking back. Is it really over? Maybe, at the last moment, you'll wake up from your poisonous-apple-induced sleep and see me for who I am.

If not, well, take care...

Mad

I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" 

Jack Kerouac - On the Road