(a claim for kilroy)

My brain is a thousand miles from home, unnoticed and wrapped in the simple heroics of waking up every morning. getting through every day. making it to the end of this movie where a last face can fade from memory and finally smile again.

Perhaps i need a great escape.

Take some time to run away and disappear in the ranks of unfamiliar settings where not a damn soul knows my name. where i can invent myself again without the weight of family or friends.

I wouldn't have to think about my mentor dying or my grandmother. her husband's alzheimers. my mother's invariable and conspicuous wasting away. there wouldn't be a chasm forming among those i've earned the trust of, who i've obliged myself to with the best of intentions only to see this passionless play.

There wouldn't be this wealth of debt, growing larging every fucking day. nor this dead air i call a workaday - spent enduring more than learning, more than maturing. assuring myself a life of subservience to the moneyed and inauspiciously privileged.

I would only have me and my conflagration of dreams.

But is that really the right decision? is it right to run away? would i be better served without these acres of concrete, these fucking patsies and heartache?

The slings and arrows of this city's fortune are wearing on me these days. the fate of the states has taken me screaming for recognition, trying to save the fucking world somehow and rooted me in the bemused.

I feel like i might just be living.

I need to feel alive.

Is that possible in such a negative space? can i invent my hero in the confines of a place where the word is bandied about with such poor insolence? do i become an expatriate?

Do i fight?

And if i do, where do i wage my war? where do i raise my fist? where can i fly my flag of mutiny, of freedom, of madness and liberty and the warm fractured fabric that makes us all just perfect human beings?

GODDAMNIT!

I know this time should be frustrating. i know i need to ask myself these questions along with the bevy that have come before. but they're driving me crazy. they're making me moody. dark in the mornings and desperate at night. i'm smoking too much. i'm drinking even more and half my days i just want drive my fist through the stained glass windows of st. patrick's cathedral to demand an audience in the house of god.

I want to smear my blood across his floor and leave my mark in heaven.