Inevitable. The cyclical nature. Staring at the washing machine.
On the news there was that old man spending the next twenty years without the woman who'd been his purpose. It seems that eventually even purposes piss themselves and get cleaned by nurses in retirement homes. How strong is direction if it's cooked in a bedpan? How splendid is this masterpiece viewed with fading eyes?
The explanations become as blurry as the images.
Look, you take one meaning and plug the leak as long as it'll hold. It can be a cheap fit that lasts a few blissful hours or it can be a stronger glue that relies on fitness and endurance and the hope that, by nightfall, the body will be exhausted enough to surrender. Each are options with inevitable consequences. The first option gets pulled over for weaving in and out of traffic, while the other finds the mind wide awake with no more gas in the tank. It's an empty feeling as the water rushes onto the boat and you drown another day.
Isolation is this dream. You wake up, start again and hope for any element that holds the rickety boat together long enough for peaceful sleep to prevail.
