and i sat and felt the visual inspiration slipping away, either that or it was reshaped into something ugly, something about supplication without absolution, about wreckage without redemption, something wrong. and as it happened, a set of shuddery breaths grasped and then released me; i recognized them as the dry sobs which describe the search for release, when none is at hand anywhere near.
and i mourned without cause and ached in mourning and considered the impending morning with a modicum of dread and nothing else, unless vacancy means anything. and yes, i suppose it does. but it doesn't matter.
nothing does. implicit in this statement is of course that everything is mattering just a little too much, and i respond by setting whatever energy i have left against the matter at hand, wondering if that matters, though it is an idle and rhetorical sort of wonder at best.
and at worst, i find these times trying me and i wonder if will be found as woefully inadequate as i feel; a logical examination of the facts would indicate i will not, that in fact i will be honored as a worthy adversary before the ending begins the grim task of taking me down for the last time. not my last, of course.
and outside of myselves and one or two others is where this really begins not mattering; however understanding the insignificance of this teapot tempest does not mitigate the circumstances surrounding these words, beyond my control, yet of my own doing.
