Resurrected Sunday

The former days of my writing process including running ragged with varying activities and intensity. The mix was angst, stupidity and insight. This would blend itself with a huge chip on my shoulder into something sad and beautiful.

Back about a year ago i attempted to re-do this process because it involved alcohol and erratic behavior. Hence I would wake up on a gentle Sunday and feel the peace of having spent all my energies. Alignment of my world would come full circle and a new week would begin with a knell of peace.

So yesterday I was drinking for the 14th straight hour and everything was going swimmingly. However, inevitable descent from the wave of perfection came quickly and unexpectedly from without and within. Quite unnoticed the heralds of promise had possibility had already gone home. The one of Fortune stayed out in the rain.

At last I came to the same place I have been. The snake eating its tale once again. Ourorboros. The few threads I have left are there to the sound of tinny drum and the nothing else.

I have this feeling like I am supposed to be preparing for something, but school is finished for the next few weeks and the tides have steadied. My left hand has been itching, always favorable. My right hand keeps time with the squeaks.

Contemplation is a tempting option, but altogether a waste of time. I pick up the thigh-bone of a mallet and strike the gong at the right time.

Playlist

"Maybe Not" by Cat Power
"Wave of Mutilation" by The Pixies
"Faith" covered by Limp Bizkit
"Dancing with Myself" by Billy Idol