I am tired of painting pictures of this broken old man laying before me. Tired and feeble, with no strength to do anything about it. Feeling like a rung out rag dried up on the window sill, without an ounce of life left in it. I know, pitiful right? But despite whatever joke I may make of the situation, this is what you get. Still I try and write words that uplift and push things along. But lately all I feel is an epitaph pouring from out my soul.
I’m trying to file all this under the heading of just being physically exhausted. But even so I still have to fight with the demons of my anxious mind along with it. My doctors tell me to be patient. But patience is a commodity which I have very little at the moment. I can’t really say I’m in some sort of panic. Because after 20+ years of living with that old friend, what I’m seeing now isn’t living up to panic’s full potential.
I suppose more than anything I’m just here fighting with myself. Laying here somewhere between creating doomsday scenarios in my head and writing messages of positive charge. Still in-between all that is the silence that I hear coming from everywhere. So here I am tired. Tired of the tightening in my gut, tired of the misfiring heartbeats, and tired of the complicity of silence I find myself in.
All post written by
FD Thornton, Jr
All Rights Reserved.