uneasy rider

I could do it. I've done it before. I could. This time, I could roll out before she comes to a rolling stop. How cinematic. For you in the peanut gallery wagging your fingers and saying, 'Why? What are you running from?' I say, 'Be infinitesimally original, for fucksake.' Or pretend to be original if you can't do better than that. Spare me. Point taken, okay? I'll nibble on the piece of cheese placed on the floor, if it makes you happy. I am running from my wounds, self- or other-inflicted, running from the self I don't have and never will, from pain, ecstasy, misery, and mystery. Got it! Mystery, that's it. I can't bear not knowing the ending. But who ever does? So juvenile. Running from her, her, and her, and every her imagined or real. Stop. This is fuckin' me up. Stirring the ashes. It's stupid. Speaking of mysteries, she's just that. Mysterious, inpenetrable, inscrutable. And that's exactly what gives me a boner. And precisely what enrages me, its denial, its blinding ignorance of me no matter how much I wave my semaphore scrawny arms. I could jump. To go where, do what? It didn't matter with 'her,' and look where it got me. Hold it. It got me right here, right now, in a new and different passenger seat, a freshly re-upholstered soliloquy. Not moody Hamlet's grandiose and silly 'to be or not to be.' Gawd, no. How gaudy and unseemly. To go or stay. To stay or go. And I don't even have dice to toss.