Hogs and Bats

For the third time since I've lived in this damn brick polluted madhouse I pulled a bat from the floor and released it out into the cold. A screaming rodent scooped up into the plastic confines of a dirt pale, shoved from a warm carpet embrace and placed out into the dead of winter. Poor thing. I sat staring at it from the rear entrance of the Design Center as it crawled over the stained wood platform frozen over with ice, slush and snow. I felt that was my bold move to save it as I watched her tiny screaming form crawl awkwardly for safety or shelter or a decent place to die away from the ill green flood of asphalt and mercury bulbs. When I saw it crawling there I knew I needed to leave Rochester. I never wanted to be the bat and there I was one with the thing. It's hard to leave though. Pain is hard to let go of. It's a blanket that serves to move me forward when love and pity and desire all fail. Most of these attempts fail or more accurately the belief of these attempts fail. That's my monster, failing beliefs. Then Amito reminds me of the dogged truth, that autobiography is the easiest form of art. Simple. What's easier than that? To tell a story from a unique perspective with Romantic overtones while simultaneously defeating and deconstructing those overtones if you've had enough schooling to understand your role in creating your role. I feel therefor I am, what dog shit. What wacko bullshit both to not explore and to indulge in self. I'd like to let go now. So in true repeatable, paradoxical form, from a landing zone of headaches and stoned hope i say, "Dear Lord, help me leave this place or help me fight harder." But right now, I'm exhausted...