whatever the pace

its not a contest or a race to the finish, its the daily grind. waking up with a stiff neck, an old body a new day, all combine making a whole experience one that doesnt quite sit like it used to. everything is old and new, i am not this but i know this, feel that, its familiar and disconnected, almost a nostalgic grace to be in the body but not of it. where i'm wearing out is a blessing since theres plenty of usage, what remains is stubborn and unrelenting. the early mornings, the words on the screen or paper, the silence of the mind as even these words come from nothing and go nowhere. how wonderful it is to be awake somewhere and not sleeping another 4 hours without any idea where, but lost in the purple phase of existence, the royal we dont know. i can see the puffiness on my face where the lesions are reddening and soon to turn into scabbed remains. i wonder who that is looking back and admiring the scars of a lifetime stretched over the experiences of a thousand. i have my daily ritual, the one i belabor others for, the unchanging constant, the battered remains of a life gone and now shell like hollow and rolling down the wind swept streets. no wonder we take refuge in a earthly habit one that affords some awareness that there was a life however small and meaningless, its habits endure nicely into the next life this body endures.