Talkin' 'Bout Panic

I'm gonna try to write less about myself in here and write more interesting stuff, including fiction, poetry and wry observations.

Just not today.

By the way, I feel cleansed. I was obsessed with using the phrase "wry observations", and now I've gotten it out of my system. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

Panic is building to what could very well be a dangerous crescendo. Today is April 4th. 2023 feels like it is screaming by even faster than every other year in my life. Because I am keeping a close watch on it.

Measuring things carefully. I should say measuring "thing" carefully, because the only forward movement I have created is weight loss. Reducing obesity is a good thing for my mind and my body, but I have far more pressing things to deal with.

Huge things with huge consequences, either way. If stasis wins out, I will end 2023 in utter despair - and I will not take that lightly. If change wins out, I will emerge triumphant.

Definitely need a change of venue. This house is smothering me. On my days off, I feel lighter; I try to act on that in positive ways. But the same rooms, the same darkness, the same creaky floors, the same surroundings, the same scenery - trudging upstairs to this room, which is beginning to feel like The Room of Failure.

Shit, man - I need out.

Had a moment of weakness a week ago. Looking around,wondering if we really need to sell this place, wondering if I even have the energy to move - assuming we can find some unsuspecting rube to overpay for this museum. Conclusion - we really need to get out of here. This house represents the ultimate fucking rut, so deep and wide it's starting to feel like a death trap.

2023 panic has an enjoyable quality to it, tantalizingly palpable. It feels like it won't be denied, like if I don't move onwards and upwards my body will just explode, like if I don't wake up I will get my head kicked in.

70 looms. That has a lot to do with it. What the fuck am I gonna do with 70 if I'm still eating Spam?

A voice in my brain whispers "do you really think you can turn your life around at the age of 70? What do you have that you can sell to buy your freedom?"

Well, what other approach can I take? Alone, I would opt for blues and booze. But I owe Carol - some sort of payback for the sadness and loss I have infected her life with.

I owe my soul, for Christ sake - this thriving, thrilling, unique life force that has been breathing through a straw, submerged in a swamp for it's entire existence. I need to supercharge it with cocaine, and liberate it to illuminate the lives of my family before essence is eternally snuffed out.

Think about that. When I'm dead, my soul is gone. This thing that could have brought happiness to me and wonder to friends and family, fucking gone. There will never be another one like it.

I'm talking about panic, baby.