licking a wound

i cant exactly make head/tail out of the days recently. especially today.
crashed. roadrash. just like the times i have met the asphalt face first while i was working as a bike courrier. but when you are on ground with roadrash, there are no questions. the reasons are obvious. days like today where one feels defeated, there are no simple answer to give out. but to lick the wound.

perhaps it's the anticipation or an old realization that sometimes, things- whether good or bad, can never be quite so rigidly defined. the weight of the things- they fluctuate. for instance, that book bag on carries around, is quite light when you are starting out for the day. depending on what one packed, it even may seem lighter than usual (perhaps that new book or new 'something' that has been greatly anticipated; like new sets of pencils etc). then as the day wears one out, it gets heavier. even may cause you a pain- slouching, dragging, etc.

there are good bits within today, certainly. i scored some works and i ran into an old friend. i think i am as ready as im going to be for now for upcoming work session, i even found some eccles cakes in toronto. i have readied the house once again, for leaving, i am not willing to take myself so seriously. generally, am trying to stay afloat.

and then at certain point,

it feels as if i have stepped on a small thing- a splinter, a pin, a shard of glass, whatever you will- and whatever that's been sustaining you 'afloat,' gradually dissipates. feeling much like those birthday balloons past its prime, the rubber no longer taut, stretched out, and wrinkly. as one deflates, one becomes desperate, even hopefully. it'll go. it'll lift. and it will. it will all work out. it does. it has to. it better.

it feels red. a red that is tinted with blue. oxidized dark brownish red. despair. scott weiland's gritty voice used to be the sandpaper i used to rub my wounds with. today, i be a small scrawny pup licking its wound, with that well-worn sandpaper. STP's 1992 album, core was one of the very first music in english i remember listening to. and i ate it up. every track. every word. every pain. every pain that was imaginable and conceivable. angsty teenager, not angry, just wounded. curled up, i may as well just sink to nihilism. broken, fragmented, bit by bit. consumed then spitted out. not pity-worthy, pathetic, really.

...I am smellin' like the rose
that somebody gave me on
my birthday deathbed
I am trampled under sole of
another man's shoes
Guess I walked too softly...
(stp, core, 1992: dead and bloated)

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