My name is Gomez. Writing songs, playing music, singing;
these are the things that lift my spirit.
No money, broken cars, riding the bus; these are the
things that wear me down.
Somehow I push on imploring the skies, all the while punishing
myself with a self-imposed penance in regards to my sense of having regretful
actions, in my mind, of a fast past wild life and condemn myself to the fate of
the likes of Sisyphus forever to lean into the rock, sweat pouring from my
brow. I ask you there must be a reason, right?
Will the pain never end?
Many of my comrades have now passed before me, good men
gone astray, yet I carry on as my black beard grows gray.
Should I die today
there are those who would mourn me.
Those whom I prop up and encourage to fight on, not to give up the ship, for the
battle can be won, at least I keep telling them and myself this.
Still, when alone, I sit in thought wondering why. Who
would pep talk me in my hour of need? I grow weary and doze off into erratic
day dreams. I dream of my passing into nothingness and leaving nothingness.
What of this life then? Some say there is no meaning to life, but I think there
must be and so I look to the heavens and the future. And what of the future,
one must live for today, but if today brings only sadness, then what?
Have you ever felt like throwing up? Not because you’re
sick from a virus or of having too much to drink but because you’re sick with a
thought.
Will it pass? Most likely and I will push on, nose to the
grindstone, shoulder to the rock, an errant tear mixed with the sweat that
falls beneath my brow spurred on by defiance. I shall succeed…
That is how I feel now… in this moment until once again I
let the fire snorting steed of my ambivalence buck and drag me boot in stirrup down
the road throat choked with dust trying to shout out the words, ‘Whoa, WHOA!’
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