It is autumn; not without,
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.
Birds are darting through the air,
Singing, building without rest;
Life is stirring everywhere,
Save within my lonely breast.
There is silence: the dead leaves
Fall and rustle and are still;
Beats no flail upon the sheaves
Comes no murmur from the mill.
The second half of the question is quicker and simpler to answer. Things bother me because I — through conditioning and petty impulses — allow them to bother me. I neither blame external circumstances, nor accept that said externalities can be responsible for my state of mind. I could remain unbothered by the things that bother me, with enough work to break engrained patterns. I should also note that I could choose to be bothered by a great many happenings that don’t bother or offend me in the slightest.
As for what bothers me, the list — sadly — remains many. That said, I don’t think it’s wise to broadcast the things that get under one’s skin out into the universe. Just like I wouldn’t announce if I had a gimpy knee or a weak jaw to a general audience that might include those who wish me ill. It just seems strategically unwise.
Drifting down the river --
No command nor control.
See the water glimmer,
Circling 'round a hole.
Then one's world drops out,
And one's peace is gone.
Everything is in doubt...
'til you're spun out on the lawn.
What does it mean to be a kid at heart?
The capacity to see humor in flatulence, even when it’s your own.
Oh, wait, maybe I’m thinking of a “kid at fart.”
My war days are long past. I'm not quick to beat drums. I've neither king nor caste. I've seen the winter come. Fearful norms have no hold. The law has lost its sway. I've broken from the mold, and turned a roving stray. Crazy sages / role models: those freed from conventions, who can't stand for twaddle, and shun all pretensions.
One false footing erases the screeched blackboard writing that'd formed in my mind & everything becomes a blank, white emptiness -- Not a good empty. Not a good quiet. The emptiness of blinding pain. That's the slow, cold death of falling into a drift and then cascading, tumbling, tumbling, in an avalanche. Wrenched asunder - or so it feels - and left to go numb in a silence so total that i know it's my first experience with true silence. We all fall down? That's what the plague rhyme says, isn't it? -- Madmen & Holymen, and those who take this fall and are twisted into a grotesque blend of both. Which way is up? Tiny seedlings can tell, but I cannot. I'm lost -- 50/50, I dig myself deeper into my own doom. My life trickles in a file of hours, dripping into that dim distance of non-time. I'll stay lost until the spring thaw when I'll ride the glacial runoff to complete my tumble as a gray and bloated thing.
I saw the black skies up ahead,
but hoped they’d clear as I approached.
I hoped they’d clear as I approached.
I saw those black skies up ahead.
And from the distance I felt dread.
The dark wouldn’t yield to my reproach.
I saw those black skies up ahead,
but hoped they’d clear as I approached.
The ebon clouds began to spread.
Into my mind they did encroach,
and on my bliss began to poach
until something monstrous was bred.
I saw the black skies up ahead,
but hoped they’d clear as I approached.
I hoped they’d clear as I approached.
I saw those black skies up ahead.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 