To Be Joyed Upon

I am berserker. It is not something to be joyed upon.

I understand that in this moment, more so than I felt in recent writing states, that the berserker is present in my life; it is happening now, tonight, in this conversation I have with her. That is berserker: destruction in spite of something good and calm and hopeful, destruction in spite of something good and calm and hopeful in pursuit of a sense of improvement and progress. Fuck.

Miles from here there is a road that leads to the southern shelf of the city. You climb switchbacks not too numerous to discourage but steep enough to excite. During the sunshine of an early Colorado spring the grasses are yellow and brown and dry in the breeze lingering from the winter. At night, the grasses are purple and black under foothills reflecting at their joints the light of the city. I have been up this road. Riding in cars during my high school years hoping for energy and action in life, but finding stasis and waiting for years to come. We would wait and dream. Now we wait and dream. The years are now. The life that I waited for is now.

Humans love to touch and test what is in motion. They desire to see if their motion can keep up with the movement of the world in which they live.

A life of dry front lawns and cement in alleyways/ a low standing district just southwest of downtown/ one of the oldest neighborhoods in the city/ low and close adobe houses/ bright colors in the summer and shaded cracking colors/ the same colors/ in the grey and brown Denver winters.