Making terrible mistakes, missteps taken, backpedaling out of awkward situations. Lost in the details. Dead ends, detours, roundabouts, and the cul-de-sacs of running in circles. Watching reality dismantled in your face. Ferris wheels of misfortune. Concentric circles further on down the road. Grinding gears. It only takes a second to ruin the rest of a moment. Getting lost along the way. There’s more than one way to screw up life. It’s not like you can take a pass or request a rain check. Ask for another chance to destroy your days. Leave a trail of breadcrumb memories. Life goes on; we beg for relief.
Dashing dreams against the rickrack shoreline of impossible possibilities. The waves wash away all doubt. Those perfect imperfections. Nobody clued you in to the sick joke of this stand-up comedy routine; the world is an open mic comedy club. Zero updates. No mention of the facts. No one said it was going to be easy. If it were that simple, then everyone would be doing it. We pretend that all’s well.
Waiting for walls to crumble. Rolling, tumbling down to the bottom at the top of the stack. The wheels fall off while we sit in front of the plasma screen television window watching the world go crazy. The door opens both ways. It happens to the worst of us. There are no easy outs. No shortcuts, only one-way roadblocks, sidetracks, and wrong turns. Dizzy in the circular motion, drowned by the wet world of sorrowful darkness. Save your tomorrows for a new day. Rising tides awash in the jetsam of self-doubt. A sea of impossible possibilities. The fear’s palpable in your gut, down to the core at the pit of your belly button.
The spirit of life is extinguished by failure and disappointment. The embryo of ideas disappeared from the giddy-up and go. The artificial light is waning. Pissing on freedom's parade. There is no democracy. It’s a given process, feeling like a rank amateur amongst the lost and found, dead or alive. That is how we like it. A bit player, fledgling professional in a bush league miscalculation of odds and losses. The numbers don’t add up. That was the first mistake. Call the bookie. All or nothing. Afterward, in another part of town, a series of bumbling attempts by ill-informed people who have no business telling anybody what to do, of course, tell everyone what to do. Ordained and sanctified by the church-state. The place of no deposit, no return. It’s a calculated risk, taking a bet on another stranger’s wet dream.
That’s how things work against us. It’s a reinvention of the mediocre and the lame. The laissez-faire of throwing it away. Those little problems that crop up when least expected. To live, die, and never know the meaning of your presence. The misunderstood part of every story is about how this happened and what will come. Dusting off the knickknack tchotchkes of life’s dusty little secrets. Trinkets from a long-ago, faraway place. Trip over the edge of where it all began. Stumbling forward to err on the side of reason. It’s the little flubs that glitch out the equation of you plus one minus equal ultimate zero. Settle for nothing less. Expect nothing more. This is where it all went wrong.
A grand faux pas. Subtract mistakes, turning pratfalls into pirouettes. Life is a dance best done by the living. The dead already have their own dance to follow. You lead. The flaws in the fallacy of this fiction are based on the notion that you have regrets. An oversight of every flawed failure. So, misunderstood in the blunders, mishaps, and slip-ups that you will never know the truth behind lies. It was never about you. I misjudged the situation.