Monotony

There’s a storm looming heavy on the horizon,
the calm before is thick,
weighing everything into muggy slow motion,
dense,
pale,
like how dawn is soft yet stark.
I’m not cold,
but I’m shivering,
In unknown anticipation.
It’s sticky
and the sky is bruised purple and blue at noon.
Let it crack!
Let it shatter!
‘Cause I remember when every moment meant something,
when the air was laden with purpose,
when every step, no matter the direction
felt part of the journey.

It’s so hard to find truth in monotony,
when all your energy is spent in the getting by.

I just want to write something brilliant,
want this storm looming heavy on my horizon to break.
I want to feel the weightless free fall every drop of rain must
as it plummets through sky back to the earth it came from.

I know that I’m idealizing the past
and that the journey never ended.
I know that I’ve just been momentarily blinded by routine
and apathy
and cement.

Well screw apathy!
Screw excuses!
There has never been a better time to create than this.
Than at a desk engulfed in cement,
than to the beat of a ticking clock,
than underneath a perfectly cloudless sky surrounded by all of us who don’t know how good we’ve got it.
Than in dewy suburban morning,
than in your grandmothers house,
so you can remember just how many years you may have left and stop taking yourself so seriously.
No one else does.

Maybe for some, life can be a comfortable room
where you eat, sleep, breathe, blink
and are content until you die.
But the Steppenwolf longs for sufferings
for sacrifices
for art
for thinking
for questioning
for poetry
for Mozart
for the immortals and their divine laughter.

He knows that all of us are just stumbling wildly through the dark,
blindfolded by time,
flailing our infantile arms out in front of us
in vain hope of self preservation,
but still managing to collide spectacularly into almost everything in our path.
Mostly into each other.
Mostly into ourselves.
Explosive physical contact does provide relief from the unwavering vastness.
That eye between the anarchical chaos of two storms

Birth                                                                                 Space                                                               Death

That monotonous calm
weighing everything into muggy slow motion.
Dense.
Pale.
Like how dawn is soft yet stark.
I’m not cold, but I’m shivering…
A storm is coming.

So break
into purpose

So break
into art

So break
into questioning and poetry and maniacal laughter

So break Steppenwolves
out of apathy
out of excuses
out of that detestable palpable calm.
Sprint through the dark into the looming storm cloud.
Be flung.
Feel your weight condense and break.
Plummet through the sky as raindrops,
back to the earth from which you came.

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