Suicidal suitcase

Where are all my friends?

Where has my life gone?

Who am I?

I was thinking small change in the machine with a Tom Waits inclination when out of the blue I heard whispers in the breeze that gave encouragement to not give up in the crazy dream.

I still felt small after hearing them and thought that it’s not out there that is going to save me, but something closer to home.

Glancing into my crystal ball I saw that I was not introducing myself very well and so called on the genie to give me a pump. But he wasn’t at home. Oh that bad, bad genie.

I entered this into my diary as another dereliction of duty on the part of that which was looking after me to give me a clue; and got nothing and so decided to make my own clue…

Well, there I was, slap happily slapping away and on my second fiddle of cognitive dissolution until my mortgage ran out to put me back on the gin and running up the bills and thinking that not everyone was a born again saviour when my feathers were ruffled by a little bee that was buzzing on by. Buzz it went.

Oh what a busy bee.

I felt then that I should go out, somewhere to swirl the dust up a little bit, somewhere I could be me. Listen to music…

But I never shall, for my friends are in here. Oh... I can see you all smiling away, filling the emptiness with your beauty, your excellence, and your love.

My friends; ladies and gentlemen…

The next away day was looking to be bleak as I stumbled into the new day the next morning with my head falling around my ears and with no clue about anything.

I was picking up things and then putting them down as I made my way to the kitchen to put the kettle on for a cup of tea and look for a saucepan to boil the porridge, and felt like some reckless savage blown back on the breeze and taking dance lessons from the fairies.

The whole day then went by so fast I didn’t see it.

Sure, I was foursome squared and bolting the door about this to myself sometime later as I was dancing in the moonlight under the stars like some crackerjack martyr on the steps of oblivion.

The fire on the wall of my silence was beautiful and threw into relief the one I was dancing with…

A topiary of bird song in the bushes some time later when the sun came up caused me to expand a bit more, and so I flapped my wings…

Oh, I am so many preconceived conditions where the excellence is but my partition in it so that I can’t see beyond it.

My worth is made up in this way to be so.

Picking up my suicidal suitcase I made for the door and to hell with it all.

Am I but the emptiness that can never be fulfilled?

And then I pulled into purgatory stumbling all the way to the bar and said to the barman: fill a glass with anything and give it to me.

The barman was most obliging and gave me what I wanted, and then went off to serve the woman at the end of the bar who was calling for a re-fill.

I was tipsy and a die-hard to boot; and filling myself up with anything I could get hold of and losing miserably as I grabbed my drink from the bar and downed it.

But the time comes when enough is enough; and so…

Reaching down, I felt for my suicidal suitcase with my fingers under the bar gripping tightly to the past and so just had to say to them: what is your problem, relax can’t you?

Hearing no answer, I picked up my suitcase and headed for the door to take the bus to some another town. And all I had on my lips was: broken again…

Am I a bloody carrot? Oh, come on now, think…

What am I, and what can I say, in this place where I find myself with you looking at me and me looking at you?

I hate looking in the mirror these days…

Are you reading me? Will you send me an anonymous reply to give me some of your wisdom? Or will you just leave me glowing in the dust?

I am the outlaw, but I’ve forgotten who I am. And I have to close one eye now as I search for my purpose; and yet, I am hardly saved in all the secrets that come at me to be known for their secretism.

I've been thinking that real, and quality, and heartfelt, etc, are not what people are looking for...seems that most everyone is looking for entertainment.

Some exhibition.

Some show.

And when I look at the crazy of it all I see nothing to be inspired by.

So I manage my demons and move on and keep a firm grip on the suicidal suitcase as much as I can….

Image from Pixabay