Here goes the ticking of my heart—mindful of it, I use my time wisely, and efficiently, even when the beat is an unconscious one, the structure that remains after making a deliberate effort.
I pop a can of my trusty diet soda pop, and try not to let the boost i get go to my head—and drive me down a rabbit hole. I hear my true love’s voice in the distance, as my wave, my coordinates, and her wave, and her coordinates, combine.
I seem to be a creature of habit, of compulsions, prone to compartmentalize my way throughout the day. I can only hope that I do not, as such, suppress my true self—just as I try to accept that being a creature of habit, of compulsions, prone to compartmentalize, might be a part of who and what I am.
I walk a fine line between tapping into suppressed parts of myself, and, in so doing, suppressing other parts of myself. But I like who and what I am, what I’ve become, and where I am going, who and what I will be, in the future, and all of the things that, along the way, I have accomplished.
In heaven, however, I will be at peace:
No part of me, at the end of the day,
shall be, or have been, suppressed. I cease,
nonetheless, to protest, and force my way,
as I do my best to accept that I
cannot be perfect, and perfectly happy,
ever, in this 4D life. So I rely,
don’t I, on what, at this time, I can’t be—
not in this society, this world of
shame and desperation, trying, in vain,
to secure more than our share of His love,
a quantity, that, for all, shall remain
fixed, infinitely fair, as it was, and were.
This notion that I might, somehow, deserve
more happiness than those i deliver,
or those that, in the end, I preserve,
is what troubles me—driving me to assume
a role that does not become what I am,
a still, small voice in a crowded room,
that which, for hate, doesn’t give a damn,
and, as such, lives on, forced to do without.
I’ll never live, exactly, within the beat,
taking, as if i could, an alternative route,
one that is already there, and complete.
Life, as a function of time, comes for us all,
whether we’re born now, or after the fact,
a function of the end we must forestall,
so long as there’s something, just, to redact.