Doings (getting it over with)

Wee piece of something strikingly dark, not so depressive, potentially poetic and self-observing. As for the observant-part, I won't make any rash decisions. In any case, written by Scaramouche, the po(t)et, as always. This is merely a comeback to reality, normality and starting yet another page. Same book, same pen, whatever. No writing off, no necessary copying. Sometimes, it's so massive, you just don't know where to start. That's how I went on. I find myself absorbed in knowing it's not everything. But then again, maybe too much. I let good ideas slip. I see them change, devolve, I seize them, progressing, I ponder and I revel therein. Then they're gone - I don't stop them. In ways of fighting the temptations as I let them get to me. The words seem to fill up the vaults of my soul, albeit I can't seal them in, and I won't enclose them, so I find myself locked away instead; almost like a cup of hot drink that from which I sip but can't fully drink. I'm on planes, journeying; I encounter dangers, joy and troubles yet to overcome. I walk familiar streets, confront familiar faces, see people play and plays with people, good actors, I get pissed; angry, drunk or whimsey, no matter. Then I think I've found something and it escapes, once again, it's on the constant move. Moreover, I forget. I tend to fail in that department and it's increasingly annoying to me. Books, tasks, cupboard, blackboard, shop, shelves. I'd need a map and a list. Which I don't manage. My focus loses itself, at times, I don't even have to be aware of it. Neither its presence nor it's passing. It simply evaporates, into thin air, impaired sight and vision, I behold not the least bit of idea with regard to how, where, when, which, what, I don't know. So I sit on the tram, or the bus, of which I prefer the latter, and I watch the world go by, my routine, stating an example, and I commit the same crimes every day, I stroll about the same areas, same routes, same paths. I get lost in trying to find anything, so I find nothing, and the corners all go dead end on me; they lead to the middle of nowhere, all of a sudden, as though they'll never fit. Doors fall shut; even the mental ones, as mentioned above; windows creak, wind blows, rain falls, coldness comes. Turn of the tide. Run of the mill. In the midst am I; coming, going, leaving, breaking and entering; same appointments, same obligations, same rooms. I suppose. You peek inside, enjoying a view you can't actually describe; for it's too petty, it's of no account worthy of mentioning. That's how meagre the eminence of earth has become to me. I shun it, I dare not look twice. It brings back questions of what we recognize, and what we only take in. When impressions are not impressive any more; they're plain matter. Surroundings. I find the context hard to bear. Too much. I don't remember the amazing thoughts because they're too amazing, too many; somehow they're imploding; and I catch no recollection of how they overpower me and overtower me, and what more. They fly on. The world is leaving me behind, for I'm too slow. It takes it's toll, it's sharp twists, short cuts, and I'm not following. I'm lagging, thereby lacking. Still, I exist, dizzy with excitement for no reason. I wish to learn apprecation. To cherish again, and live in the now. The momentary bliss. But most of all I want it to have some meaning, some significance; I want to look back and be able to tell. Then re-tell. My story is on the edge of developing into a circular and flat figure. Consisting of basic things only. Earlier, I was yearning, learning, feeling. My future is left to my imagination, to imagine it is my duty. What I must, what I need. Solely to live. My words are my nourishment and I want them to linger. If you ask, that's my reply. Responding is the essence of my living. Currently, however, I am in doubt. Start, finish, nothing in-between. I get by. My mind is a blank sheet, no target. Pinpoint no direction, shoot out blind, consequences don't apply. I am senses, not perception, I am ability and not realization. I do what I do and it's all I get done.