Finally

Nothing makes sense without a plan. A plan to get things done, to deal with what needs to be dealt with, to ensure that you are on the right path and have a clear, clean way to get there.

I have been pushed and pulled in so many directions that I lost sight of mine. I have a few, actually. But I'm starting to see them again. I'm starting to see what's really important, what I can and can't do, what I will and won't deal with. I am finally understanding what this all means.

I just lost my focus for a moment. That's all. And now I'm back on track, ready to attack. And obviously making some poetry in the process. But that's what it's all about. Making your point and trying to make it as beautiful as possible. Not sugar coating, because that's just bullshit that melts as soon as it gets too hot......no, just take the simple truth, understand it, and try to make it something that you can live with. And if you can't, well, to quote a beautiful person, "It's all about what you can put up with".

I've still got some miles on these feet, some things I haven't done and want to, some people I haven't met but need to. These things help me focus on my path. On my many diverging paths. And the best part is, I'm really paying attention to the scenery. I'm noticing things I've never paid attention to before, either blinded by something or just too crazy busy to pay any attention. Things are changing. Things are swirling under the calm surface. Things are about to explode. I'm just going to hold on tight, enjoy the ride, and hope my wounds aren't too severe. But then again, what is the point of living if you don't have any scars to prove you were here??

Sitting in a restaurant helps me understand my own mortality. We sit, either in a booth or chair, make ourselves comfortable, place our bags on the table or in the seat next to us. We place our arms on the table, touching it for the first time. We are making our mark on the surface of the table. We sit. We eat. We laugh or cry. We drink or read. We exist. We exist in this booth or on this chair. We finish. We pay the bill, the penalty for the way we ate, and leave. We are gone. Our bags are gone. Our glasses are cleared away. The table is wiped clean. It was as if no one had been there. And the next person is seated, taking over the space and making it theirs, having no concept of the fact that you were just there, warming the chair and eating off the table. You are gone. You paid your bill and left. And someone comes in and takes your place.

It may sound really morbid, but it's not. When I'm feeling a little too immortal, I just watch a busboy make his way to the next memory that needs to be wiped out. It's good to keep me on track.