Therapy and Good Ol’ Days

I miss when a man could survive on just diesel and grit, black coffee and a cigarette. Back when men were men and women were whatever we wanted.

On a good ol’ day, one might finally find a fairer and more just ideal, cramped and coerced and comfortable as a gin soaked bathrobe at a dusty revival.

Other country gods and other Gods and country and make believe decades of freedom from the flailing. Bless our undying love of lies and illusion, sick romantic longing for escape from the aging grays on both sides of our temples.

The movement was first felt in our youth, in tone and vantage, like something had finally landed. It was disorienting at first, until the big two – icy beginning and fiery end – both banged into crisp view and for a brief moment, the whole world sensed the impossible.

All together.
All the meaning.
All the futility
All the darkness.
All the pain pushed
pushed, pushed deeper and darker
into brighter pyres of purpose.

That would never do.

The powers ran the filthy models up whiteboards and down catwalks and had to pick which apocalypse likely sticks the landing best. They counted the red cost and divined the poor price of an even poorer soul. They stormed in and took away the lights and landmarks and shoved them back into boxes and pixels to force feed their fawning flocks.

They gave us free skin and sweets and sedatives, soul surfing to sooth our waking hours back into song and slumber, back to the black bliss of the unborn, just like the womb and its moment of warmth.

It’s good to be back.

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