"Leave, I was going to say leave all that. What matter who's speaking, someone said what matter who's speaking. There's going to be a departure., I'll be there, it won't be me. I'll be here,I'll say I'm far, it won't be me."
- Samuel Beckkett, Stories and Texts for Nothing.III
I accept the terms that my waking life must be lived with. No, it isn't as easy as routine, work or money.
Once in a while I taste a sliver of light: alive, warm and engaging; my sudden acceptance becomes unreasonable. But again the light must be ignored, I wile away with music, books and things. Living is the present, I must actively spend it so I may say I am here.
But the wall must come down at night, I find the rule laying on the bed, staring lovingly at itself at the mirror. The mirror offers no insight on how the rule continues it's strangling endeavors. The rule wants to be perfect. Perfect enough that everytime I see it, that it nourishes me to contentment . The rule goes on with it's meaningless banter: its women, its childishness and its uselessness is mine. It is content with my false existence.
My drunken stupor spurs my hidden anger and resentment, but it knows my whims of violence will deny itself in the morning. The rule continues, it knows the strength of how it owns me.
A new day again, I hide that I know of warm conversations, pleasurable food and literature that conjures ideas in me. My mouth must shun out these affinities. (The rule doesn't understand these things)
I must stay still, I mustn't create nuances. In a day like today, the rule will pronounce I am the victor, that these ruins are mine.