Reading harold_maude's journal

Sitting at the kitchen table
drinking coffee and watching morning
taking it's time.
I'm reminded that hours pass to fast
and days sometimes get caught up
tangled and wired to fall down.

Reality comes to reason with me
telling me so many things are like the dirt
which gets into everything
and no matter how hard I try
it will be there long after me.

"It just is." My determined companion tells me
with out emotion.
"It just is"
And the rain comes. Breaks away.
And then comes again. Only harder this time.
Washing the dirt and grit
down and making mud and pools.

The pools reflect the sky.
If you move your head to different places
you can see the trees.
And if you stand directly over it
you can see you.
A darker version of you.
All shadowy
like a stranger standing in the way
blocking the sun.

The mud clings.
Like determined resolutions
made on January 1st.
You can scrape them away
with the first excuse that passes by.
Feel guilty.
Feel regret.
And hate your self for failing.
The mud reminds you
just by being there
that life is a series
of falling down
and getting up
over and over again.

The house is quiet
except for reality
that's staring me in the face,
getting in my face
telling me so many things
that I already feel
grating at my soul
and my dreams.
I could be bitter
and I have been bitter
and ugly
and angry.
But not today.
Today is a good day
because it's going to be
what I choose to make it.
Inspite of
what reality is telling me
that I have to worry about.

It only looks that way because your standing on your head.