Ten Thousand Days – Tuesday

by practicalspactical

I am exhausted — not sleeping — writing writing, pulling virtual law books off of virtual shelves, grabbing a puzzle piece here, a puzzle piece there, and my puzzle piece whittling knife, with which I use to shape the edges and slip them together — cunningness and cleverness — the things — the things — memory — memory gone — exhausted —

Inching closer and closer and closer and closer to my Ten Thousandth Day — all vim and vigor gone, pithed, that time of year again, Day of Atonement came and went <BOOM> and now after repentance, the emptiness that sits on porches in brisk autumn weather watching the days shorten —

Shadows grow longer. The Phillies are in the Playoffs, third year in a row. Double Rings? Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, the undiscovered country — what to do — where to go — who to help, who to hurt, there is a small soul inside my chest cavity, it is shaped like a chestnut, one day I will put it in the ground and an Oak will grow. Ironwood Tree. Ironwood Tree. It will be close close close — flying to California — hope I make it — what are these dark clouds over my head — what are these dark clouds — repeating — over and again — over and again — the things — the memories — the thoughts — two ravens — Great Big Emerald Gods with Industrial Light and Magic Pyrotechnics — who what who what who are these people — these words these images on the MagicBox, what day is it, what year is it?

Babies with earings. Access Hollywood. Who cares? Not I. Not I. What? When? How? How? How?

Ten thousand days. I hope I make it. It will be an accomplishment. Merely to have lived. Jamie Foxx — Blame it On the Jews. Curb Reunion Show. Eleven Years. Eleven Years. The Nineties. The Aughts — nameless decade. Next decade will be nameless too. The Teens? I don’t think. Will people refer to it as the 20s in 2020s? I’d like to see that as well. I pray we won’t be eating each other by then.

Transformers in live action. Baseball in technicolor. No mind left. Words — words — I am a soulless writer, pithed. I said that already. I coil back around upon myself, chewing on my tail, chewing on my tail, $25 an hour, I hope, I am, $25 an hour, not very much, not very much at all