I take great care of my surroundings. That is the battlefield I can see, but the one I fight on is imperceptible, ushered in with the changing of the elements. I am dissolving into the director, I’ve long had the time in front of the lens. I was always in that vein, but chose the wrong outlet for it.
There’s the quiet awareness that I’m somewhere else. I’m not afraid to admit that letting go of her is difficult, it leaves me more vulnerable than ever, and I was already exposed. Situations encircle me, which have implicit life-and-death weaved into their nuances. It is as if every time might be the last.
I am ambivalent towards Christmas and convivial airs. I want for nothing and do not wish to participate, but it was to my chagrin, a pleasure in being the provider. The outmoded view of its subsequence to leadership proved an egoic tussle. It is as it stands, a unified perspective; to give is direction.
Rage can take a man so far, it must be subdued with the passion of reason, calmed in a deference to a natural order. I stand in a quagmire, balancing the loads on each shoulder. If I step outside the door, I might meet a future wife, or a swift end. There is nothing casual to be found, and it is not a question of time. A rehearsal of thoughtless proportions.
There are scenes to delight the imagination, but run me sick through illusion. It is not the world that I inhabit, and no amount of wishing makes it so. I am beset in accountable freedom, and the pathways are considered with eager flare. Yet I do not possess the abandon, or the wiles of a vagrant. I do not rest on my laurels. I am Julius no more.
There’s no place for ballads or amorous tales, I’ve inhabited stories to ensnare for a lifetime. Witless fool, as I am, I find a life all but squandered, but I knew nothing else. I did what I had to. Standing at a crossroads, I do not enquire any further, but I am all to aware that the walls speak the truth. They have enclosed my ambition since I first felt myself.
I let go of her, and the man that required it. I don’t know what remains, nothing much so it seems. I am transmuting the content of my zeal and my fervour, and this presents a gift I hope in its stead, something to provide to a world dependent on bread. I am disconsolate in phases. Apathy strikes in between. Is this the right game I am playing? Did I inherit this dream?