Funk

It’s real cool when you’re dancin’ or feel like dancin’, but that evolves quickly into funky. You can’t be drug into the malaise if you’re feelin’ funky.

It’s crept in very slowly over the past few days and now has manifested itself quite overwhelmingly. Long lists and projects abandoned. Lots to do, but no drive and even worse – no desire. All surroundings have succumbed to the lackluster. I’ve been given so many equations that end in happiness – yet this strange unidentifiable mire prevents me from feeling it. Not dead, just closed off. New and old, however irritating or promising – my back turns, mind’s eye rolls. The lulling in and out of unattractive personas – the monster, the bitch, the boring, the ever scary NOT FUN ANYMORE – making me even more discouraged with myself. Everything is there to please, yet I only yield defiance.

I went through all my boxes last weekend. One of a series of spring cleanings I’ve gotten into the habit of doing every couple of months to organize, but more so to trash the clutter. Another recent trip into the past within just a few weeks. Over Christmas, I was surprised that I smiled, but those memories were accompanied with evidence of their unpleasant endings. Very lucky that was. Makes things a lot easier to miss when you are reminded very vividly of how badly they needed to die. This time I knew would be hard. These weren’t sour – just over. I actually forced myself to get through it quickly – no reading – every item picked up and abruptly piled as if on fire. Fear if I held them too long – I would feel them leaving all over again. I wasn’t aware that I could close off emotion so well- probably because I already knew what I would be up against.
So many pictures and tokens of past joy, shame that they invoke pain. Not of regret – I don’t do regret – but of loss. At least I had all those times once, yes, but…. Old and frayed letters – places, people – sorted and put back away – segmented life so sweet – long passed – to lie in wait – thorns and broken glass – snuggling together in their shoebox - dormant once again. I didn’t get upset or nostalgic. Maybe I should have.

Cause I really don’t feel funky.

I guess I’m afraid. Youth always seems impervious to fear – retrospectively. Failure and consequence never weighed as heavily on nubile strife. That’s what I see evading as I catapult into elder. The attempts fewer, confidence cowering as awareness of wasted mortality thickly seeps in. Projection of outcome does become more prevalent with age because it has to. At 16, 18, 23, even 25, I didn’t need a roof over my head – so what if it doesn’t work – I wasn’t good – I didn’t succeed – I have all the time in the world to do it again – to do something else - to start over. Now I don’t.

Of course, that could all be bullshit. Even now, so many things crumble without intended venture – no effort put forth only to be faced again and again with loss, elimination - only having to start all over again.
And I did.

I’m still not feelin’ funky, but at least now I don't want to.


It'll pass - everything does.
There's always room in the box.
I'll even be happy when I pull it out again.