Through a narrow path with resonated walls I can know myself more vividly and scrape away the excess waste I have stored up in seeping jars. I must use what I can of my stash in supply for the settling with morning stalls the eager but listless victim of a leading generation that got lost behind the boomers. There hasn’t been a day gone by that I haven’t felt the need to bite, or chew, or smoke, or grind, or stretch, or sigh: these nervous and anxious habits stem from the need to be entertained, or in some way, pacified. And each time I stop to realize how much and how little has changed, I yearn for the “good ole days” that seem so far away. What a cheesy sentence. It sounds like something I would have written when I was twelve.
May 1, 2001