we both had bad dreams last night. she asked me the following question at 7am:
"daddy did you move me to the horde last night?"
"..."
"daddy?"
"..."
"did you move me to mrs hoard's class?" (mrs hoard is the *other* 1st grade teacher)
"oh. no, sweetie, you just had a bad dream."
i'm so tired of work. but i have nothing other than work.
i am a ghost. invisible to most.
ran at lunch, around 4mi, left quad is sore now, i think i've overdone it in the last week. hamstrings are overtaking my quads, i really need to go ahead and pull the trigger on a bike. trek soho is what i'm looking at. internal gear hub ftw.
picked her up, she'd had a good day and got a tcby card, so we went there. she had hamburger, cauliflower and pasta for dinner. and yogurt later. we played some tag, played trash (card game), made party hats, watched a man vs wild ep, and she read "penny" to me.
"daddy, just so you know, i never want to go to a desert. i'll never be up for that. now, ireland, i could do." "..."
managed to get her outside to run with me for awhile as well. it feels nicer outside. three showers today.
but here's the truth. fair warning.
she's been asleep for awhile. the dog is guarding her. no one is guarding me. tool is playing. the dryer is running. the dryer is always running. i wish i looked good without my shirt on. i wish i wasn't a ghost. but i am.. invisible to most.
somewhere across town, my ex wife is sucking the marrow out of another man's life. and i hate her for it. when running does nothing for my mood there is an obvious problem. or is there?
i have naught other than this dark room and this lcd at 9pm. i have an outdated home, a hamper full of clothes, neighbors i don't know, friends i ignore, routines i obey, and mores i abhor and yet practice. i'm reading "the art of war" again. i don't know why i bother. breathing is war. greasing my cog for the interminable machine is war. life is war. i'm so tired of fighting. i want to lay my head back in the stream of time and float, drift past the current into the future, open my eyes and find them closed. at peace. a heart broken beats to its masters discontent. the owner feels and hears and knows that every beat is a discordant despondent reminder that there can be no peace until it has stopped. quietude is the only true peace, which is perhaps why so many societies resort to war. no one knows how to just shut the fuck up and we can't stand others and we'd just as soon kill everyone around us but war gives us a righteous out, a pedestal of collective guilt relief empowering us to create silence and peace for others and attain accolades in the process. having your cake and eating it too. that was big with the ex.
my eyes burn with the fractious forethoughts i cannot contain or stem. yes, i know where we're headed. inevitable and unavoidable as water making its own path against all protestation and engineering.
and afterwards, in reality, it'll have been just another blithering idiot flushed down the toilet.
hell, even if i got what i want, some runner girl jumps in my bed, i would be right back to square one. obsequious and fawning and altogether an embarrassment. what a failure.
remember, i want "ten years gone" played. and fuck everyone who doesn't want to listen.
"then, as it was, then again it will be. though the course may change sometimes, rivers always reach the sea."
