patchy punctuation and conflicted springs

Tonight i'm a little too tired and a little too strangely softly contented with the ending of a long day and the beginning of a velvety night to concern myself with oddities like spellingpunctuationgrammar and all those things that were supposed to become habit to me once upon a time. A once upon a time in which i was almost too small to see over the edge of the table. An edge which i had unintentionallyroundaboutintentionally marked as my own by chewing off varnish in a widening patch whenever i was frustratedorbored. Frustrationorboredom because the greater powers in my life - who styled themselves Mom and Dad - felt that writing words the right way was more important than speaking them to the sandandskyandsunshine outside. Or to my younger brothers, who rarely gave me any reason to believe that their lives or ideas could have been smarter, more satisfying, more successful without my beneficentlyfreeandfrequent attempts at guidance. Once upon a time when the world was still wideandnewandunexploredandallmyown. When i was still definitely bigenoughwiseenoughbraveenough to know all of it.

I quit chewing varnish a long time ago, after Mom laughed at me for completely chewing the varnish off the railing of my upper bunk bed. There was something remotely addictive about it and sometimes i still miss the taste. And thinking about varnish actually has me distracted so i don't remember where this was going or why exactly i was talking about varnish but i think it had something to do with appreciating each moment. I have some pretty vivid memories of the bunk bed railing actually. I wonder if maybe i think of the varnish and the table top and all those other things because the memories of the moments are so clear... at the time i felt stuck there, but i hadn't quite figured out how to lose track of the moments within the wishing for something more. And even though i had a better imagination then than i have now, i still have such distinct memories of even the moments i tried to imagine my way out of. But now it almost seems like it takes weariness, the dulllimptiredheavysorefootedness of a long day sinking down upon me till i myself reach out to lean... lean against the car, the door, the window... and finding myself paralyzed in the now-wanted trappedwelcomedmotionlessinertia second - to realize that i have let all this become status quo. Status quo, when life ceases to allurepromisewhispermimehopepull at me, because i am trying to save my life by pulling back instead of losing it while receiving the moment flowing by me.

Dusk is seeping in my window all velvetymilkymusky with a spring that wants to grow up too early and draws back, hesitating, knowing that summer will come and rampage boldly where spring has tiptoed whimsically. Knowing that broad brushstrokes are beautiful but destructive where detail is concerned. Knowing that each thing has a time and somehow the summer wants to come too soon and the time is here but this is not the time, not yet, no, spring is not yet lushflagrantripe. And i am here steeping in weaknessbecomingsleepiness and i am also resisting because it feels that there is something in the dusk seeping slowly into me, something in me trying to seep out to the dusk, something in us both trying to write itself down so it can discover what it is. Somehow we have to wait for it, wait for it, although the weariness that has brought us to the realization of its possibility is also the sudden rush that threatens to obliterate its potentiality. Don't sleep, not yet... don't summer, let spring soak in... enjoy the varnish while it lasts. Chemical poisoning as a small child may in part explain my mind, but i am thankful to live in the mind that i have. (Can't imagine one more interesting, or more blatantlyselfdoubtinglydelightedly cocky.) The bunk bed is gone now and punctuation is a habit - but there is still a taste of varnish in my mouth.  And the tenseness of frustrated boredom. O child-i-am. Lose the boredom and frustration you were developing along with spellinggrammarpunctuation and ungratitude for the richness of living evenwhenitisn't everything you thought it had, or should have, the intention of being. Taste the varnish and the milky dusk and the spring being forced onward and the moments in which we lose what we think life is to gain what we will one day know it to be.