I am four weeks on site, and feel like, “ An Old Prose” now.

I am navigating better, and have learned to use at least the basic functions, which for me is a major accomplishment, as I abhor technology. I am a book guy at heart, and still love the hefty-solidness of a good book on an evening porch, the book with its rich smell of leather, and aged paper.

But I must admit, with theProse site, I am again Summer’s child, running along a darkened tree-line, jar in hand, snatching as the flies light, this one gold, that one violet. I set the jar on my stand at bedtime, watching it wink and glow its light against ignorance, its stories and rhymes a sing-song lullaby. I sleep peacefully, knowing that our youth is served, and not turned entirely to gaming, and violence.

And my room grows perpetually brighter, as every night I find new flies, with new colors, and brighter bulbs. And when I remove the lid to add the new, the old flies stay, happy that their lights are seen, and confidant that I will be a good steward to the causes they shine upon.

Even as I sleep, lights are winking, the brightness building, my dreams sweet in their safe assuring glow.

I can finally see “the light” at the end of the fiber-optic tunnel, and it is not a train, it is a glow-fly, a glow-fly illuminating the most human of emotions. I now take heart in being an “Old Prose” in a New World.

I awake with the lights tinkling at my bedside, and I reach for the tablet to catch you.

I thank you for writing, and I thank you for reading.

Huckleberry_Hoo

Each day that

I open my eyes

and still

have the ability

to see the sun

to stand, to walk or run

to hear music

to sing or dance alone

another opportunity to be

who I want to be,

who I dream to be,

to do something differently,

follow another path,

make better choices,

spread joy

by simply being joyful

despite pain,

disappointment,

challenges,

anxiety,

unkindnesses,

cruelty -

is another day

to smile

because

I have

another chance

to be

to rejoice in what is

and what can be,

rather than crying

for what is

and what is not...yet.

A morning breeze knocked and entered, same old, same old.

I decided shutting my eyes again, same old, same old.

Replenished senses, discontented feeling, frustrated perceptions.

My eyes all loose, keeping it shut had ceased.

My body motion etched with scripted progress.

Same old, same old habits telling me,

I don’t even live a life at all.

Same old, same old routines making white noises,

As if it was a natural questioning babel murmuring that —

I had such a futile hollow existence.

All I just do and only took was a strained sigh,

I wonder if breathing is some tool that I still own,

was it a tool?

I suppose, seeking a reply from it,

was similar to taking a branch from a tree.

I was gone from being static —

when I felt the warm forenoon sun drawing on my figure,

through the sheer curtain that veils the window.

steeply evoking and inscribing marks of my own stale nature.

Worn pile of garments and crumpled papers —

scattered around me, as if it took a slumber with me.

I took the towel from the headboard —

shooting for the waters,

I wandered off over these shabby duvets scattered on the ground.

It was a long, lazy shower I wanted —

where I was all bare with my mediocre body and thoughts,

touching everything of it with the rushing waters and my palms.

It was a long, lazy shower I wanted —

that might stroke my mind, caress my soul, and fondle my heart.

but it turned out the contrary.

It was a long, hysteric shower,

I whimpered in desolation,

moaned from a sensual sensation,

then I sobbed, weeping in frustration of knowing —

I attempted to swallow myself in oblivion,

when I’ll never even get a taste of it, only to choke in despair.

First off, I have no plans or aspirations to want to give up living life though I have no control on when I will die, I wake up to each day with a resolve to get the most out of each hour I can. Be it writing (mostly), cooking, playing games, paying bills, shopping; whatever it is. I take the time to work it the best for me. Where somewhere along the way I might have five minutes or an hour to sit back and do nothing more than relax and be grateful I did make it through another day.

Is every day perfect? Not hardly, but what might be perfect to me may not be perfect to another. Such are the ways of life. I still try to find the unexplained answer to an age old question though ... what is my purpose for being alive? I've yet to find it and perhaps, not meant to; but I look for the answer just the same.

Right now, I have all I need just for me. I wake up, eat, walk, talk, and write. Now and then talk to a wandering neighbor, have my Scrabble Sunday with a few friends and the rest of the time it's just me in my solitary quiet, and for me, it works. I'm not anti-social or anything (if I were, first off I wouldn't be here), but I really don't go out of my way to "make" friends. Almost sounds like a science project. "Think I'll make me a friend today!" said with a sly, mouth-watering evil grin.

Fact is, a couple weeks ago I was asked if I would ever get married again by one of my Scrabble buddies. I said, "All depends. First, I'd have to go looking, and looking takes up a lot of time and I'm not one for that story where the princess had to kiss a thousand frogs to find her prince. I have time but not that much time. So, we'll see."

Meantime, I mostly kick back, relax and enjoy how I live. Some things you just never want to rush.

Besides the day I believe life isn't worth living is the day I give up on myself and that'll never happen.

Good question.

I don’t know.

My body runs on automatic.

Go through the motions if only to make everyone think I’m okay.

Okay.

What defines okay?

For me okay means I get up in the morning.

For my mom and dad it means I don’t feel bad.

Or I don’t cut.

But I have a different definition.

If I’m okay, I will get out of bed in the morning.

I never lie when I say I’m okay

I just bend the truth.

What gets me up when I know I only face pain?

What gets me up when I can’t?

Nothing,

Except for my automatic programming.

a twitch in my bones

constant too loud

in my head and the silence

i'll stand just to feel the weight

on limbs that betray me

during days i simply cannot

sleep any longer

"I don't know, 

  what you live for—"

                              she said;

and my jaw

plummeted 

to the floor;

w/ my heart

in tow like an

anchor—

           tossed

                 and torn

from its beating throne;

so true it was that, that—

                          she would 

                          never know;

that accusing 

finger pushing

selfishly out

upon the soul

down the plank;

further and further

down the shore—

standing our

ground in

abstraction

as it were

for the things

once believed

to be sure.

#upforafight #challenge

Ready for another day

Time to sweep the hay

Move it to the other side

Oh, join me for this ride

That is called life.

Up, with a yawn....

Rise- 'tis a new dawn

Is this chess?

A silly timed race...

Need more space!

A fresh start

To run.

So much fun-

Ready, Set..

Go!

#ForwardandOnward.

The second hand of time

Awakens me to life

“There’s nothing more to live for”

In my ear, whispers the lie

The face of Father Time

His hands upon the clock

Reminds, my time is fleeing

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock

I’m one heartbeat away

From passing through the veil

The alarm rings in my mind

Am I ready for heaven or hell?

I’ve life, a gift, to live for

Every breath to cherish

The winding key is out of reach

Someday, soon, I’ll perish

Sometimes it's the unwanted sun across my face,

or the inexplicable need to catch a bus.

Could be the smell of made breakfast

or hunger, gurgling up a fuss.

Often its the power of routine

or the simple wail of an alarm,

but usually those menial little things

remind me why I've hung on for so long.