on the bridge downtown

How do you stop that feeling? You know… that one feeling, the one that can hurt you from out of no where. One day when the things that were eating holes inside you, keeping those wounds all oozy, have stopped their incessant chewing and become a soft dull ache, that you only think about when you hit the scar on the corner of the bookshelf; several days later when you haven’t picked up the phone and you haven’t been to cyberland, when you’re back to some semblance of normal. . . You run smack into the corner of the fucking bookshelf. It hits you hard and quick. Kinda like stubbing your toe in the dark when you get up in the middle of the night, that kind of hard and quick. That feeling starts settling in and your stomach is upset and your throat is tightening and your eyes are watering and your nose is running and you feel all the stupidity of the wasted time hit you in the scar. The wasted time. It’s so hard to let go of wasted time… Why? Why? For too long I sat there and stared at the rubble. I’d wished for the construction crew that never came. I even re-drew the bridge just like it was, only to set the thing on fire and try and burn myself in the process. Then out of nowhere a foreman showed up and holy shit if I hadn’t known all along. Tears don’t make mortar, they just make mud. Funny if it didn’t just fall into place like linkin logs. No mortar necessary, just open eyes and an open heart. I think I had been burning my retinas staring at the pile of shit and dust, bloodying my hands digging through to find whatever clue would lead me to the answer I didn’t need. Wasting more time and tears. So things change. In a heartbeat and a wink, things change. I threw the five-point into the pile and started a big fucking bonfire. Cracked a couple of beers and watched the beauty fuel what was new and coming… used the fire to warm myself so I could do work(son). And here I am unafraid. Yes, I have some safety gear. I’ve just paid more for it this time and I haven’t gotten back in the car quite yet. Instead I’ve been climbing around on the framing and I’m not even scared of looking down and landing on my head. The work is flowing smoothly and I don’t have fear of structure failure. Frankly, I’m all grinny and shit and feel like a giant dork because where the hell did this come from??? When did the construction really begin and how did I miss that banana peel and fall flat on my ass in a puddle of like? The wounds are patched, sorta. I used some of that dermabond shit this time (you know, glorified superglue). That feeling still creeps up and tightens the throat at unexpected moments. But no more tears wasted on things I can’t change. No more tears off the bridge of delusion, I had to burn that bitch to the ground. Wonder what will be built in it’s place??? I need to find those rose colored glasses….