Realizing you’re so much like everything you never wanted to be.

And very little like what you did want to be.

And wondering how much energy you have to make changes, and thinking that so much pain got you here, and so much more will be asked of you, and it still may never be enough to make it worthwhile.

All I can think of here is Morris’ “Clockwork.” I am that guy, I think, sometimes; and other times I’m not sure I could describe the guy I am at all; I’m too close to see myself.

I’ve got college looming, and I hope more poetry and more living to do; but there are nights like this, when it’s damn cold out and not snowing enough to be interesting, that all you can do is go to bed and hope for a warmer day tomorrow.

That day seems so far away, sometimes.

Replacing a Fuse

The first step
is always a long one, no matter how
familiar the cellar. Entering the semi-dark,
one eye on the dead swinging bulb and
recalling the wisdom of all the horror tales
ever told, you question
every shadow. Each once-safe corner
is black and new. The doors
yawn open, the windows beam weakly, and
you can almost hear Freud and Jung whispering and
taking notes.

You forgot (of course)
a flashlight. You can’t read (of course)
the paper inside the box that tells you which fuse
does what. You’re going to have to
pull them all, one by one, and try to puzzle out
which one is blown.

It’s just another day, then:
fiddling in the dark,
looking for
illumination, trying to set
the currents right
and restore your power
while myths snicker
and wait for you to fail.