Casey (rigbys_face) wrote,

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holes in the fuselage

You reach a point where you realize you don't really know what the hell you're doing.

"Yeah," I said, smiling and looking at him for assurance while feeling in truth for all the world like I myself could never stack up to anyone with as much success and all the haughtiness it entails as those that sat across the table from us, "I'm just kind of...coasting along, you know?"

In that smile I could feel myself so far away, like the liar I'd become. We had talked a little beforehand and agreed that for the time being I was gainfully employed at the place I had only just lost my grasp on through a haze of complex emotions that I had not yet come to terms with. I had long ago become an airplane on autopilot and the snowy mountain peaks of winter were closing in.

Perhaps not yet wandering dazed through the charred wreckage, I can't really say for sure where I find myself now. I miss all the cues and I forget my lines. I repeat old adages and try to endear myself in familiar ways. I'm trying my hardest not to be what I've been for so long and yet I see the snowy peaks and worry so deeply that I can't control this thing anymore.

I may have finally woken up, but how long have I been out like this? And where am I headed towards?

What have I to offer - besides myself and my flaws and my understanding of love, as sloppy and strange and misplaced as it often is.

And maybe I shouldn't be so fatalistic.

Things could be worse.

We could ourselves be those somehow solemn grieving islands I saw below me that day as I flew so genially past in this daze I've been in.

Bon Iver - Lump Sum

Things could always be so much better.
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