These days, it’s all about finding that former stride.
Paul says, “get back to where you once belong.” He’s a wise man, that Paul. Everyone heralds John, which is true and mostly deserving, but I like it when Paul has his moments. Goes beneath the boyish arrogance and saucy mouth and lets you see something that sparkles. Something that pings. Kind of like when they allowed George write a song or let Ringo speak.
It’s a declarative moment, really, to come out and say, “Hey self. You’ve wasted a least a month of your life, if not more. You used to rock. Now, what were we doing again?”
Inch by inch. Look at my sass. I’m getting there.
I think I have that hat.
A friend, D, says it’s imperative for me to keep up with my blogging (I hate that word for some reason), so I try not to disappoint. So… Here I am. Using my blog. Typing. Debating whether or not I want to walk across the way (the way, meaning the building adjacent to mine) and get a Gatorade. Nothing like blue dye #4 and high fructose corn syrup to make you feel like you’re alive in the wee hours of the morn.
Feeling is actually what I need right now. As of late, I’ve been emotionally clogged, I’ll admit. The hamster wheel turns, but needs a little oil before the rust sets in. I also like to think of it as the pressure before the boil. You kind of sense it, even before the kettle whistles and makes its siren call. I am the kettle. I’m also black, but that’s purely coincidental.
Sleep. I need you now, and not in the Lady Antebellum kind of way. (I dig their latest album, by the way. Reminds me of Tejas and pasture romps.) The previous evening, I partook in scandalous things and felt the effects of the devil’s brew until 3pm the next afternoon. I shall not speak of it.
“But Bartleby, you must!”
Nay. ‘Tis for another night.
I’ll be touching you.