I’ve been thinking about the future. What I’m going to amount to, specifically.
And as dreadfully cliche as this is going to predictably sound, I’ve been thinking about the past. What I was supposed to accomplish by now, and what I’ve lied about, stolen, manipulated and schemed my way into instead of living by faith.
I’ve also been thinking about that alternate reality we all have where the past is shinier and the future certain and brightly lit by the flashbulbs of fame and the sunrises of serenity, with a breathtaking view of victory.
Which means in the end I’ve been thinking about nothing constructive, nothing worthwhile, nothing useful, ironically, to my future.
I’m not even thinking, I’m ruminating. That’s like thinking when it gets committed to an asylum. “Oh, yes, we had that thinking committed when it become prone to rumination,” some great aunt with dementia might mutter as they drove away to leave my over-thinking ass stuck in the bowels of my shit-for-brain mind.
I’ve been thinking too much, clearly. And not too clearly I might add.
I don’t want to think about what I’ve been thinking about anymore. I wonder what I haven’t been thinking about.
I haven’t been thinking about how it could all go right. Or how it could all work out, how I could get the guy and do the twist and shout. Even writing this line feels like a propped up whimzy, because we all know true love is actually truly flimzy.
I’ve been thinking its harder to have faith the older one gets in the ruts of their past thinking. Is thinking just like sinking, quicksand with no outstretched hand. Or like a shamed prostitute slinking away in the night
Made of nothing but fright and wheat thins.
The two minute warning is making me think I should brighten this up bit but we’re heading into darkness, less sunlight, and the abyss of a new England winter. So a clever ending just ain’t on the holiday menu tootse.
