logic requires payment of at least lip service to this, this concept of release. this l… this lett… uce. this lettuce. no, no, this letting
go. this letting go. i’ve talked the talk to myself for some time now, and as easily as the right-sounding words come to me, they are even more easily discarded, carelessly tossed aside, or no let’s be honest here they are very carefully and in fact meticulously tossed aside, a deliberate act in direct defiance of all that makes sense. excuse is as follows: what if?
what if i am wrong about how right i am about this? what if i do what i am convinced i know i must do and five minutes later i feel the universe shift on its axis (which is within me the same as it is in everyone and everything, trust me on this) where was i oh yes what if the universe shifts within and spins things around so that this terrible unfulfilled need is suddenly within the realm of possibility rather than the almost ridiculously unreal estate it occupies at the moment? everything is entirely different from moment to moment and you never fucking know, honest you don’t and neither do i, and so who am i to simply turn away from this and say that i know this, that i know this is not? what if my pessimism (if that is what this is) costs me this (i have no words for what this is)?
i play the music that invokes the feelings attendant in the letting go, randomly breaking down in a manner suggesting i am feeling this letting go, telling myself over and over it’s done now and time to be letting go, and still i find my self clenched in a deathgrip in the absolute opposite direction and find i am not even close to beginning this … this letting go.
i am, however, going and getting some more beer. at least there’s that.