The crack is always there. 9 steps up, on the left. Every time I look it is both bigger and smaller than it was yesterday. Every time, every day. I know it will always be there.
Every thing is always there. Nothing is here. I always want and don’t want a cheeseburger. And a nap. There always is an angry client to call back. It always is the same scene out my windows – forth and back and forth again. The desk and the couch and the car and the sound of my alarm clock are the same every day. The break from routine is as hard the millionth time as it is the first. It is always the same and leaves me feeling the same.
Come, cataclysm, come. Prove to me that I would be ok. Sparkle and shine and explode and radiate and fall from the sky in luminescent chunks. Show me that I will be ok. Don’t sneer and slowly crack and tease. Fucking explode. Prove to me.
I will trade you my fear and constant not-poverty and teeth-gnashing and checking the time again. I will trade you those things for money, chaos, the ruin of new scenery. It is fair – a very fair trade. My anxiety is vintage.
Forget it. I know you are not coming. You are elsewhere creating and destroying the lives of other, more worthy people. People who lived on and for the brink. People who quit when it is time to quit, people who scream and rail and run. I stay – I churn and don’t create and don’t destroy. I punch in and never punch out. Cataclysm is not for me, even if I am for you.
So I will create my own cracks – it is all I can do, thank you very much. I will seep change slowly. I will patch the cracks and turn off the TV and shake things gently – waking up my possibility.