> Gone Fishing<
A euphemism for
Gone awol who the fuck knows where
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I understand completely mention of
Debilitating
Time warp
Regret
Loss
Anger
Apathy
Churning
And the tic toc of it and the grind
It's mentally and emotionally paralyzingly.
It's PTSD
And so much more than that
It's a raging monster
And a small grieving child
It's a time warp of sensory deprivation while the world hurtles forward in a kaleidoscope of colors bleeding together
Feelings of vengeance are a fascinating bed fellow that both feeds our impotence and our will to survive, it
Whatever IT is.
When the theft has included that priceless commodity TIME
The knowledge of the profundity of the loss, irretrievable, induces a grief and rage that is its own crippling companion.
It takes enormous fortitude to stand steady and stay the course.
It takes a personal strength not often acknowledged, to not buckle at the knee and give in to giving up.
Mostly on oneself
It takes rage.
And anger too
Channeled in the same way a demolition is controlled
Unlike the building which when brought down is permanently down,
We as humans must rise up the next day
Again, to repeat and rinse and rinse and rinse
That is the blessing, and curse of our human condition, hope
And the resolve to stay the course, dining at the banquet of anger, grief, fear, apathy and channeling it in such a way that it raises us up day after day despite or in spite of our moments of questioning the sense of it all.
I believe the sense of it is internal far more than anything external. In so much as our control is conditional and limited in large measure by our ability or inability to see and feel colors and give wings to the paintbrush of our inner canvas.
Ps: I fucking hate fishing !
Most tedious monotonous over rated exercise in the human lexicon although I will admit that wading in a foaming fast moving stream with a woven basket net to catch a dinner cooked over an open flame under a blanket of stars before crawling into a sleeping bag wedged into a bed of moss and pine needles, watching ribbons of mist curling beyond the dying fire was a heady experience complete with smelly fishy hands that no amount of river washing with gravel could quite eliminate.
Later I remembered that ash from the fire would have killed the fish smell. Too late !
. .
❤️
