Walking Alone Between Icy Raindrops in Gardens of Stone at Dusk

Somehow right when the season changes from Summer to Fall, my mood makes me crave all things bleak, dreary and dark. Dark, Gothic music; edgy, noir-ish films; deeply tragic poetry; the literature of despair; and black or purple wannabe Uggs.  It’s all one big gloomy cloud that itches to be fed and wrapped up in my nephew’s favorite blanket which resides on my sofa. (Forget it, kiddo – that’s mine! 😛 )

This is usually the time when I come up with lots of great ideas but take for-FUCKING-EVER to execute them.

  • My watercolor pad and pencils are sitting on my dinner table untouched for 3 weeks.
  • The TBT post & other posts I’ve been tossing around refuse to come out how I want so there they sit, mournfully incomplete.
  • The weather here keeps reminding me that my summer wardrobe needs to be buried back in the trunk in the closet; traded out for warmer layers.  I’m currently running out of longer-sleeved in-betweeners with which to make due…

But I just doncrying watercolors‘t fucking FEEL like doing anything.

Except stewing. And scribbling.  Writing long, semi-mindless strings of somber-ish thoughts that sprung into my head while watching Byzantium the entire way through for the first time last night:

Aimless immortal want takes a desperate toll // Strolling through empty, shadowed concrete sideshow // Intoxicating predawn silence ushers lonely breezes // Hush of night haunts all ill souls // Waves lapping at thin scratches of blood // Released effortlessly by wanton licks of a surgeon’s talon // Permission given for soul to take // Whisked away and burnt to ashen void

I hate that last line.  It’s drivel.

This is all I’m doing for the past 3 weeks; no, MONTH.  Wake, work, eat, exercise, shower, sleep, brood.  Afterthought: write.

The rain doesn’t help.  The collector’s calls don’t help.  The imposter job-offers don’t help.  The survey-solicitors and repetitive wrong-numbers don’t help. Annoying fucking retards.

A little wine would probably not help.  Alcohol is a depressant so… maybeNOT.  Seasonal Affective Disorder?  For fuck’s sake – that’s all I need.  Endocannabinoid deficiency? Eh. Who the hell knows? At least fixing that one is worth a try; and is also fun with friends…

Except I can’t even imagine that right now.  Ugh. What else can I bury in that trunk? I need my Ugg-alikes. And my bathrobe.  And maybe a snack…

*A tad more upbeat than I’m used to (this version) but still appropriately downtempo bleakness. The album version off “Vs” makes me wanna wrap Vedder in an awkwardly long hug.


About LVital7019

Just your normal, everyday 9-5er. An uninspiring position in an inspirational non-profit moves me to constant goof-offery; aimless, on-the-job procrastination; a crankiness that borders on psychosis; and attempting to craft something meaningful with words. Just another so-called-job inspiring someone to feats of insanity with a hint of creativity... (Insert demonic laugh HERE.) View all posts by LVital7019

7 responses to “Walking Alone Between Icy Raindrops in Gardens of Stone at Dusk

Use your words...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Tony Single

artist. wastrel. a quantum of potential.

The Greenwich Village Literary Review

A magazine by writers who love to write for readers who love to read.

The Winter Bites My Bones

The Collected Poems of Dennis McHale: 1981-2016

%d bloggers like this: