2

(09SEP2007 )

I remember those days when I would say,
It's just work, that's all it takes.
I used to be able to take care of myself, the apartment, the work, it was worth it back then, when I first moved into this apartment.
I guess that was before I started this work, of the notes, of the truths I know just-not-quite consciously.
I have worked hard in my life. The infection my bad shoes gave my feet in the fields, scraped off each night with a butter knife,
my rib suddenly bent, still unhealed,
the bottoms of my feet split open;
I was a boy then.
Maybe it's something to be proud of, not exhausted of.
I was becoming more and more numbed back then,
and the secret I knew about the power of work got me through;
now I'm wiser and I can't convince myself of certain things.
Back then I had this open-ended future in my mind, so that even though those days weren't bearable, I could deal with them because I had the future to comfort me.
I guess I was a youth back then. Now that I'm older all I have is the present. Now I live moment by moment, trying to take each one in without any supplements made up or otherwise to help me.
Before, I could work hard and deal with the silence because my life was a dream.