We might the right decisions for the wrong reasons and we make the wrong decisions for the right reasons.
The question is how we make the right decisions regardless of how we get there to avoid going round circles.
Stone Fibrosis A billion years lost to dust, Moon rock in a jar sits like marble in a museum. Frolics in the summer straw fade to static lines, Lace cyanide on the history of yellow rose crossroads. Shrouded, the blood dries, stills to stone, Makes a turn a circle.
Sometimes it is too easy to be busy, too easy to be preoccupied, too easy to work and all too easy to say “tomorrow.” Sometimes you need to take time, make tomorrow today.
And here we are. In the silence, the pause between the pause, the slow pulse of thoughts lost but somehow finding their voice in the familiar black ink, like blood from a wound.
Life leaves its scars, the blade never dulls and if you neglect your wounds what was once torn becomes ripped. We all have our scars, ghosts, demons and boogeymen, not everyone cares for their company.
The wounds we carry define us, make our stories, our victories, our losses, our greatness and our flaws. Our stories are the saline, the songs of the human soul.
Depression has many images, and it shifts like water sometimes taking different forms. Black snow has the attributes of snow being cold and icy, but unlike normal snow black now does not reflect light, it absorbs it.
Black Snow The crust cuts sharp as coffin lids, Brings beaten limbs to lie curt in the cold. Languishing, a gluttonous blood moon feeds, Corrupts scapes, calls empty cavers to dying echoes.
Sometimes you can feel the onset of depression. It can be like looking out into the sky, seeing storm clouds in the sky and sensing rain is in the air. If we are not careful we can talk ourselves to sitting and waiting for the rain storm rather than stretch our wings to find bluer skies.
Clouds Black keys knell discordant Gather like vultures on the wake of fading beats. Dimmer switches feel gravity turn, Tug weights on thinning veins. Anvils threaten to descend on glass, Break shards in the eye. A smudge on an electrocardiogram severs the flat tone, Brings birds to soar and dance in the clouds.
Anxiety can block your ability to think logically as it takes hold. It can escalate to a point you want to extract yourself from a situation rather than try to wrestle back control as you hurtle down the railway track.
The Retreat Treacle fingers thread closed eye needles Propel perturbed pigeon wings in jam jar rockets. Rails on a runaway train, the wheels are locked Descend fog to windows in insipid fumes. Stuck to goldfish glass, cacophony chokes logic Turns steps to fleeting strides.