Adrenal Fatigue

While flimsily skulking down the conjoined paths of twin streams, I stopped to check the breeze and discovered the faint trace of unease playing across my chapped cheeks. With handouts being pressed into the chafing palms of migrant workers passersby, I barely escaped into the alcove of altruism and maintained our maxims on manual labor and productivity. Sights bred of ignorance and sounds bred of sights all mingled in my reservoir of thought while the concocted, leisurely afternoons of the middleclass pooled together into a dog-day summer reel of Kodak film and Joe Cocker harmony. The montage spun as the hourglass tumbles in the grip of a minute, and each tear focused on a memory slid ferociously until it forgot whether it was born of sorrow or infinite glee.

Collectively and internally splayed across the emotions of a generation, there is ingrained a hint of truth, only pawed at in the throes of sexual fantasy manifested in the flirtatious gossip and nonsensical blithering between youth. I can smell the bitter juice in their breath when they stalk each corner filled with life, intent on exterminating with unfaltering prejudice the last vestige of sanity we few cling to in necessity.

Physically exhausted, my mind continues to dash in divergent directions, spread far too thin over much too large a space without respite or even the motivation to uncover the origin of primary urges. I'm kept up by the prospect that I'm without prospects, and the paradox that I'm forever thinking of a time when thinking ceases. Come to pieces, yet made whole entirely, the depression of a generation could easily be welded into the wartime fervor of the next, given a surplus of Rosie riveters and an ample taste for feminist literature.

Although the complex is almost certainly doomed to digress, and impressed intellects find the wherewithal to sink into hopeless regrets, the hope remains in the subtle connection between one's solar plexus and divine intervention. We drive the chariot of deus ex machina into the bay marina, victims of the drunk ferryman Sophocles, and though we might be at ease for chunks of hours in threes, the degree of clarity seized continues to keep me tossing and turning through the days I normally sleep. Simplicity and redundancy make me fear the dropping of each individual key, and though the struggle is nightly, I'll continue tritely and end the adage before I trip over my own cookie cutter mentality.