Ressurection

It's the first day of Spring. The Easter of the planet.
I woke up too late to go to an assembly.
It's about starting over. It's about finding the truth of what Jesus did. Coming back from the dead.
I look around my apartment.
A destroyed tomb.
An assembly of regret, mistakes, hate, bitterness, of rage, of dismembered bodies of booze, discordant decorations of dead plants and purged bills.
The "cat room"; the symbol of where it began and where it ended. An array of notebooks, photographs, college textbooks, rusty bed frames, grocery bags, litter boxes.
Littered with memories of the mistake I made for five years.

You left this shit. It was easy for you. I was left to clean up.
To make a difference of the after-life.
To grow something from this garden of garbage.

I took me this long
to organize; to put away; to deal with it;
to not be over-whelmed with the person I was,
and maybe still am.

I want to cremate this grave.
I want to bury the regrets alive.
But I cannot incinerate myself,
I cannot bury myself alive
.
I must dig a grave full of fantastic, unfulfilled and funeralistic findings.

Each shoveled scoop brings up the good; brings up the bad.
Each handful of letters, photos, and drawings,
demands a dissention of the negative.

Each grasp grants a guaranteed goal:
My resurrection.

Shalom.