Mascara down my face.

Ready? Am I? I don’t know much of much these days, but I hear the question. Ready? Who is it asking me this question? Again, I don’t know. We would often say, ‘It is what it is’, which transformed to a ‘It is what I say it is’, to now a ‘It is what I don’t know what it is.’ I stand expressionless in front of the mirror and habitually reapply the lipstick I feel more comfortable in than in my own skin. Hang up. It is the colour I wear. Hang up. I have been hung up and I have hanged up. The indifference of the emotional with the physical married together with the spiritual has become this outlet passed away with the essence of everything concrete I rested my head on. Am I grounded? Kind of? Am I solid? Maybe? Am I out of control? Have I ever been in control? I question the questions and answer the answers with more questions, because my hands are emptied with only the residue of debris, like gun powder of absolutes I was so certain were the obvious of the obvious. Last night woke me from a reality of a certainty that this seaside view doesn’t come without challenges. I have no strength to fight a good fight and march the grand march, however I do have enough breath to breathe by this fire as I lie my weary soul and bathe in its heat. I have nothing to give. I have preciously nothing. Am I ready to fully walk this walk and talk this talk? Not at all. However, as I bask in the heat from the only who can be trusted, I cannot be moved by this situation. I refuse to be moved by the results of this perfect storm and the devastation brought down on us viciously and without mercy, I just can not be moved. I wipe my eyes with my muddy sleeves and stare the adversary in the face with my limited strength, limited vision, and my limited understanding, with my rouge coloured lips, and continue this undertaking, regardless the cost, oh God, please Lord, show me some mercy.