broken (for the) record
there is something that is stirring within me, and i can’t put words to it. i can’t explain it. there is no song i could sing, no story i could write, no picture i could take, no sermon i could preach, no cry i could bellow from the depth of my belly to express it. it cannot be expressed in human form. what is this thing in me? or what thing am i overlapping, suffocating? this… life. life is within me, fighting to break out. it’s a ball of energy and time and… essence. i am nothing without it, and i need it - it is breath. it is the electricity that starts a fire in my eyes every time they open. it does not flicker or falter, i do. i fail. over and over again. the ligament, the cord holding everything together is so frail. so fragile. it snaps with one deep sigh and i am back where i started. i’m beginning again. every time i blink, it resets. i am a calloused hand- holding tightly to a thousand grains of irreplaceable, delicate moments. each second that passes is another fluid motion as they fall from my grasping fingers to the echoing emptiness beneath my feet. i am walking on glass… i am flying through a windy, confusing speck of an idea of reality. and tears flow down my cheeks and run down my arms and soak the pages i am trying to turn into something they are not. i’m trying to make gold out of a pen and a notebook. out of ink and wood- i want to build something of worth. but i am weeping at the uselessness of it all. and so i sit back, tilt my head towards the trees and let out a cackling laugh of despair. what is there to do but wipe the dirt from my face and the sand from the cracks in my hands. i look at the sweat and the blood that my efforts have produced- a bubble of useless pain. i laugh because i am nothing. i laugh and i cry and slam my wrist into my forehead and then breathe again. smell the blood and taste the tears again. and the all-to-familiar memory crashes into my brain and i’m back in the place of recognition, of realization. the shock floods my veins like ice water and my soul groans. i remember. this is what happens when i act a role that i was never meant to play. when i take steps that weren’t mine to choreograph and draw plans that were never mine to design. i’m no architect, and my toothpick bridges have fallen again. and this time i’m more broken then ever before. i was not made for this. i want to be the currency, not the banker. it’s time i was spent.
