Doomscrolling is the death of creativity.
It sucks me in. And with my tastes there are a ton of poets saying poet things. And rather than inspired, I feel like I’m not going to be able to write. Because they wrote it better. Their personal journeys. Their blood on the page.
My lukewarm days. My pedantic pedal boat. Moving slowly into the certain uncertain.
I’ve bled and cried. Burned and created. But here I am, a product of doomscrolling and too many days stuck without the people who make life good.
I gave up caffeine. More to do it than for any health benefit. Haven’t seen one 3 months in, to be frank.
My cats receive my attention. For both I am either never enough or always too much. And if that isn’t the echo of all my relationships, I don’t know what is.
My problems are small. Even if they are insurmountable. I have shelter, food, and safety.
What I find I have less and less of, is hope.
I used to believe in the undelible goodness of humanity. That when push came to shove, humanity would choose the brighter path. I can’t believe that anymore.
The trump years proved the overall despicable traits which simmer beneath the surface. And the now times have so far proved that this isn’t going to change.
I know that when things advance, there is a backlash. But this backlash is like a flywheel. By the time it stops, our wounds will be so grievous we will either fall or fury. And everything I’ve seen points to fall.
I feel like I’m spinning my wheels. But I know this world. And I don’t have the means to switch tracks.
No spoons, no funds. Just the endless parade of days. Wishing it were otherwise.
There’s wine in my room
Because I have no room to store it
Because I chose, in my youth that I’d be a wine guy.
Neverminding that I can taste every element of it
including the alcohol
and it’s hard to aquire the taste for something that is essentially poison.
But I’m the wine guy
with opinions on pinot noir vs chardonnay
but really I’m saying that one masks the poison better than the other
That one has a bite but doesn’t feel like being bitten.
That one I can drink but the other I’ll decline because I don’t drink whites
but really it just tastes like oak and rubbing alcohol.
I’ll drink blends because I’m a wine heathen
but I’ll say it’s because the combination meets and creates a uniqueness that must be savored
when I really mean that this combination tastes delicious
I don’t have to control my face to keep the disgust off of it.
After ordering a 12$ glass it’s hard to justify not drinking but wait, ah, too oaky.
It needs to be drunk in one to two years when the finish softens.
I know these things
I’m the wine guy
What does it say of my life, that a slip of the tongue is the most disastrous thing to befall me. So safe have I become that the wrong words pave the way to heartache. When in my youth, ill-conceived action would have led to blood, to loss of fortune and life. And now in my safety, I look back on perilous times and see them as good.
The triumph of survival rings heavy then fades. The soft blandishments of current circumstance pale next to the risks of youth. These soft courtesies, small steps, enticements to a love longed for, all seem foolish now. In youth, I would have taken and ravished her.
Strength and fury, the hotness of passion welling up from the dark steps to fill sky with actinic display. But now, years past beyond the reckless of youth, speak words of poetry and hope she will want what I am now. Though knowing, this soft copy of who I was, this faded version of warrior poet, so pale. So wan with grief and times passage, who could want this.
I feel an old man now, though I know only middling years. I sit in my tower, surrounded by books and comfort, fortune frittered away. I write missives to you and hurt full, bursting, overflow as in youth remember. I wait, amidst silence, hoping that this time… This time you’ll find me.