Grin

9 Apr

I can only. Right now, as the day gets closer to its end.  Me about to go upstairs to bed before my wife texts me and tells me to do just that.  I smirk a bit, finally on the Road I’ve been meant to be on.  Studying, in class, undergrad and grad, all those memories and scenes returning… the one spoken word piece I wrote in retaliation to what a poetry “professor” remarked about one of my pieces.  I smile, slightly, not giving too much to air, but I’m collected and assembled in this character.  Who Mike Madigan is, right now, on this floor.  I’m in an umbrage of understanding.

Reviewing my progress.  Guess you could call it a self-assessment, I guess, I don’t know though.  Is it?  Honestly, I don’t care.  I’ve come to a place and point in my story where I don’t over-invest in what I have little or no control over.  OR, even total control.  I’m not concerned with control as much as I am composition.  Not wanting bed, only more time to meditate, collect, think about next day, what I’ll say in class, and how I’ll amass my notes and say something of “value”.

This feels funny.  Not sure if it’s confidence or some bravado that I’ve always wished I’d possessed and now for some reason in this late stage of my life I do—  How.  Why.  Don’t ask those questions, I tell myself.  Consolidate… reiterate, mediate, paginate and promulgate.  You see something at a certain point in your story.  You’re not sure what it is exactly, meaning you don’t have a particular moniker or classification, but you’re magnetized by it.  And you lead, while you follow… following your own lead to that prize and premise, seductive mise.  More understanding, lesson, collection.  The answers catapult themselves to me in eagerly healing hives.

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