I have not gone outside yet today, though I have let some of it in here.

Staggered lines of light painted upon the wall, fanning out as it fades. The gentle caress of crisp air, marching through the window agape. Almost intimate. Almost romance. Almost spring.

Perhaps this is why I have decided to stay in, for now. Might be fear. Surely hesitation.

So, I walked over and opened the door. Propped open to replace the old, pre-breathed air. Birds going on about it. Smells like a day for two young humans to fall in love. And I hope they do, for at least the day.

But here we are again. What shall we do?

This all ended for what I thought might be for good, back when what is growing to be awhile was only just now. I didn’t think I would find myself going at it again. I thought it was dead, good Lazarus.

Which is why the former ceasing to be will not be the topic today. Today is for forward. This is not for current affairs debate or political pandering. There’s enough of that in everyone’s diet. It is not for degrading the opinions of those whom dare disagree with me. Just as it is not for blubbering on about how great of an idea so often pops into my head. I wouldn’t want to willingly lie. Not here.

It is not for whining, nor pleading, nor badgering. It is not for trickery of any kind. It is not for losing tempers. It is not for being cool in front of friends. It is not for advice or warnings or dark omens. It is not for questions or answers. Nor is it likely to be for questions and answers. There is certainly no self-help nonsense. I won’t help you lose belly fat or make you feel more validated as you go about your cubicle existence. Don’t listen to those people anyway. You can only do such things for yourself.

And this is certainly not for wooing women.

That’s what poetry is for.

So.

What is this? What is it for and why bother?

This is for doubt, you see. Since it’s conception, this has always been the effort to wrangle with doubt. To see if it can’t submit, and, if the strange chance comes that it does, off you go to find more.

This is an exploration. It the struggle for why with knowing that the answer is always just out of reach. Just to witness it all. To explore whilst waiting away a life. Because an effort towards comprehension gets you closer, but nothing in life gets you there.

And if you’re concerned about futility, hear this- if there is no point, that is the point. Existence, to as far as we can perceive it, is malleable. You can sculpt it, move it, break it. It is yours to attempt to crawl and it is yours to throw away. And it is yours to impose upon others, be it by making craters or making babies.

So dig.

I’d been having these nightmares. The worst kind. No monsters always just behind you in the distance. No falling from a plane or the Earth splitting open. Nothing fantastic. The extraordinary ones are the best ones. For me, it usually means my imagination has been kicking around.

No, the kind I was having exclusively featured humans. Ordinary humans that existence in my life regularly. But the kind that somehow found influence in my mind without my permission. Influence on my life. And in these dreams, the influence was used for what I could only see as evil. There was one with a face of a person I am forced to deal with, though quite begrudgingly, and that very person worked and succeeded to rob me of what I love most. Though that human does not have such powers, the waking life did not want to let it go. A pit, buried deep in my stomach. Weighing some million pounds. That was mine to carry around.

But sooner or later, enough is enough.

So, I decided to deal with it. I addressed said human in this actual waking life and somehow through that, the pit went away. It wasn’t too clean of a discussion, but it was a discussion just the same. There are others. Many. But the crime with that particular one had gone on too long already. Keeping the doubt stagnant. Doubts are for diving. The human mind craves it, I think.

Strangely enough, or not at all, I had a dream afterward of something warm. Something of a spring day. Something of being younger and dumber and free. That something just out of reach. I had one of those dreams where you taste it. As it was, if it ever was. A touch and then gone. Grasping for the words as the sentence falls away.

They used to wake me to sadness, those dreams. Now they wake with soft inspiration. Which I shall spend today making into grand inspiration. I hope.

But its good. I’ve missed this.