TheWeatheredLife

Just write the words as they come from the mind. Soon enough your intellect will let go, and the lush valley of descriptive imagination will fall onto the pages as fresh dew falls upon the tender corn silk on a Midwestern morning

Let the pen ramble while your mind tries to take control. Remember the most important and most difficult thing about writing is to sit down and WRITE.

The Resistance  is always right there on your shoulder as a specter, whispering, convincing, and conniving you into believing that words are not the medium for you; perhaps speaking is your thing. No, says the malignant resistance, you are way too anxious and scared. Besides, where are your credentials and how did you get past the guards? No press passes?  Well, out of here with your effervescing blue shirt Mr. Andrix.

Travel elsewhere in this great world, but keep your mind small and your dreams big. Keep the recipe built generation upon generation, buddy. Frustrations, this recipe breeds, Mr. Andrix. Just the perfect accompaniment for the regret you will feel as you lay wheezing, the death rattle the very next moment.

Your eyes will stare into oblivion as you shrink into eternity, finally understanding that it was all up to you. All in your hands, dreams, nightmares, ethereal fairies, you once thought. Now, as heaven embraces you, you look back, wishing, wondering what may have been, if I hadn’t been an invalid to fear. What may have flowed from my lips or pen? How might I have struck a chord in this world?

But ahhh it’s much too late for that, Mr. Andrix. On you go to your maker.

Resistance sneaks around every corner, spies on your every move or lack thereof, waiting with the bone white accusatory finger pointed in your direction, accusing you of failure, embarrassment and an awful disgrace you will be.

Resistances with a mouth full of air, no real teeth. Rubber teeth fill the slobbering jowls of the enemy. With vehemence, he lashes and bites at your neck, to no avail, a master of deception, full of lies.

This is the master you have chosen, a sentry to the gates of illusion. Daily you step in, wishing, wandering, literally dying for more. But no, your mind has gone dark, or twilight has befallen your eyes.

Downcast is your gaze to the road of broken dreams and past failures. Your mind frantic and emotional about the loss of years that have fallen behind you.  Trudging through this mire, feeling the deep, rich mud of regret squeeze and squish through your toes.

Every day you dream of escape. But you cannot. Resistance tells you of your responsibilities, cars, house, children, trips, toys hobbies, TVs games, appearance.

Slowly your light drains within you and withers. All that remains is an ember to the once raging fire you knew coming out of high school or college. Ready to conquer, you came  to dominate this world, pursuing your dream as the Toro chases the red cape of the matador. Almost blind with glee, all your eyes behold are your dreams, steps laid out, joy pushing daily through the soil of your heart. The world is your oyster.

At once you begin climbing, fast and hard, until a few rungs break on the ladder, not to be dissuaded, you repair the rungs and quickly resume your ascent. After a comfortable pace sets in, you decide to rest in a nice windblown plateau. The breeze, light as it caresses your hopeful cheeks. The plateau is comfortable as it comes in many forms, wife, kids, and job with benefits. So you decide to put the ladder aside for a while.

The rungs begin to weather in this life. Soon you forget you can repair the rungs and storms come and batter the already weathered wood, and further your ladder falls to disrepair.

A hum, as bees wings start to enter your head, convincing you that all is well, that the ladder isn’t necessary.

The droning continues as a machine dutifully punching out widgets. Months and years pass as you are lulled by the hum, which subtly turns into a staccato bass voice in your heart, convincing  once again, warm, akin to a friend giving sage advice.

In bits this advice lays upon your tongue and dissolves as a communion wafer. Soon you are daily taking a steady diet of this unsolicited advice.

The resistance  has burrowed deep within you. Now it need not even speak, for you have become its mouthpiece. In your head you tell yourself No . Saying things such as I can’t, because of what would they think or the benefits are good. In a few blinks of an eye, we are all at the beginning of this cautious tale, the breathing coming in short gasps, lying prone on the last bed we will ever know.

Question: What is your Resistance?