Whispers through the wall

A slight…

tremor builds in his being as his mind wanders to things which should already be in motion. All the plans he put in place yet to materialise. As the all too familiar sense of dread and anguish loom, deja vu sets in. He knows this feeling, he knows this setting, and he knows the outcome all too well.

The anxious rescheduling instigates within him a sense of remorse. Schadenfreude fuels the remorse, and with each adjustment in the schedule, it grows, it grows till it can no more, finally climaxing to leave behind a cobweb of disappointment and despair. Exasperated by this mess, Bob will quit, dejectedly seeking solace in the mundane and uninspiring. The aftermath; a scrapped schedule for the present, a packed one for the future.

Some mistakes need to made (way way way) more than once to learn from them. A crescent forms on Bob’s countenance as he comes to this realisation. One that will hopefully lead him back to the synchronicity highway.

A figure…

… stirs in the darkness, disturbing the stillness of the night. The figure grimaces as he passes from the opaque veil into the halfhearted glow of a streetlight, both from the change in lighting and in anticipation of the choice he must make.

Bob stands at the intersection, his mind in turmoil contemplating the places the roads could take him. At the end of each he sees warm, comforting lights. Pretty soon, Bob becomes exasperated and decides to let fate play it’s part. A coin is flipped, and a decision is made. Or so he thinks.

For nary 3 steps into his journey, Bob is once again plagued by restlessness contemplating what could have been, wondering where the other path could take him. Trudging back to the solitary streetlight, he decides this choice too important to be settled by fate. No, this would be a decision which would require much deliberation. And so Bob racks his mind further, hoping against hope that somehow, his mental debate would not end in another stalemate.

Occasionally, Bob will have an epiphany that will tip the scale. He will walk purposefully in one direction, an eager glaze to his eyes. Every step full of determination. Yet it will always end the same. He will always turn back, no matter how far he has traveled. Always back to the the starting point, a furrowed brow an appropriate reflection of his mental state.

Other times Bob decides that maybe fate does know what’s best for him, only to doubt it again almost immediately.

And so Bob lingers, ever present on the intersection. Never does he realise the surroundings eternal gloom. Never will he understand that whatever the choice he makes, it will always be a step in the right direction. He will always be one step away from darkness, from gloom, from despair.

Yeahhh… no thank you

Unsolvable issues are like dead weight, they linger and take space. Precious cognitive capacity is spent on brooding and wondering what could or might be instead of focusing on matters at hand.

The brooder unwittingly pulls himself into a pit of despair, not entirely living but merely going through the motions, waiting for brief windows to come alive. Little does he realise how his seemingly harmless routine ravages his chances of what truly could be.

Although to the brooder, there is only one way, one method, one routine, there is in reality no one true path. All roads are fair game. But due to the brooders persistence to cling, to wait for that one road, he misses out on others, on the possibility of enjoying himself for once.

The brooder in his foolishness forgets that the journey is more important than the destination, for in the end, all roads lead to the same dark destination.

Hmmm…

I’ve been thinking, and maybe a different tact would be best. The one that I’ve been intending to do for quite some time. I’ll give it a go, without all the hubbub about chronology or flow from one post to the next.

The cannon

At a time when thoughts should be no louder than a whisper, the cannon rips through my mind, every little squeak reverberating in my cavernous conscience. To be honest, I never thought I would actually look forward to hearing the shrill echoes, yet now they seem so comforting…

and sobering.

I had thought that each and every seed I planted, I would be able to sow. Alas, the land has and will continue to be barren, for a tree (more like a stump) already grows on the land, one which already drains the land of its nutrients. For my seeds to grow, the tree would need to be axed, the stump removed. Dare I?

In retrospect, I see the futility of my actions. I had assumed that each and every testing touch was met with approval, a blessing, when in reality all I received was familiarity…

should I just let go?

Then what? Cause I know I’m going to miss how squeaks turn into baritones whenever the cannon cackles in ecstasy. Or how the world is empathized yet is thoroughly overwhelming. Or that dazed look, as she silently …

… it’s always the little things innit?