The Fight

I’m sipping down tequila and shooting for the bulls-eye like a new man.  I used to drink a lot more but now I take my time.  I walk to find the curtails of the world, buy bread, I eat on a bench outside the cemetery, without contemplating, no worries.  I’ve come to find out there are less worries when you work hard and take your lunch at the edge of the world.

When I’m alone I switch between new simple electronic and old raspy swing.   I try to catch my breath, I feel like I am listening to the universe but thankfully, I am distracted enough to not stare directly into its eyes.

Maybe its part of getting older.  I feel more ferocious and less docile, more hungry and less starved, grey and less…black and white.

Work has been difficult and until now I haven’t had a chance to decide what it all means.  Every job I’ve ever had takes me six months to process.  Six months to decide if I will fight the good fight for this company or find another.  That leaves me three more months.

I smile against the stitched head of the world.

Let nothing phase you, not even the devil’s breath, though pseudo intangible.

Not to say jobs in New York City are the devil, but the beast must be healthily removed from the room where you keep your heart.

Growth is a consequence of living.

And living the consequence of truly fighting.

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