Sunday Morning Thoughts: 5.7.17

It’s not easy. This whole, being alive thing.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s worth it. Or at least I think so, though I know that is not the mind of everyone. But any thing is harder than no thing, that’s for damn sure. I can’t recall anything from before this whole life business, but I feel quite certain I wasn’t putting forth much effort before. In all that nothing. If it was nothing. If it even was.

The easy way is not for me, I’ve found. Effort is rewarding. Rewarded. Effort is a reward. It may be madness, but I am often at my most profound whilst sporting sweat soaked hair. With my heart a-bounding and mind flirting frantically with the world around. All those other beasts about celebrating whatever they find in an evening. ‘Twas Derby day, after all.

But I’m biased. I dress up and play entertainer on some weekends and the evening preceding this Sunday morning was quite grand. They even had beautiful young women willing to have songs sung at them. Which if I haven’t made clear, is kind of one of my things. Though my charm tends to crumble off stage. And I tell you, if you want to be a minstrel of your own tunes, you must try. This is not accidental occurrence, though I’ve had unanticipated supports. But if you plan of having anyone convinced of what you’re doing, you must look like you’re doing something. And if you want to convince yourself, the degree of difficulty is exponentially more. And to be your best version of a budding folk legend at 11pm on a Saturday and some sort of longwinded poet upon waking on Sunday is damn exhausting. Not that I would know.

But to speak so strongly of divine effort is at the very least mixed with hypocrisy. I’ve got quit in my soul. We all do, I think. And such a feeling isn’t evil, not by a long shot. Life, to the best of my knowledge, is the possession of they that live. It is yours to squander, or pander, or throw away. It is also yours to conquer. The ultimate conquest of the human heart.

But here I am, speaking like a sage when I am but a charming young fool. I am no prophet, nor soothsayer. I can hardly even tell if a woman finds me interesting these days. But I say there might be a wisdom in cluelessness. If you can catch it.

So, two days ago around this time of day, I was playing my big drum in the pouring rain. They were taking the casket down the steps and loading him up after the ceremony. I watched the beads bounce and break and begin to pool and drip from the sides. Each one weighing a ton. Solemn faces, some red-eyed and fighting quivers, while others stone and stoic. All there for a man who all that knew him called good in the grandest sense. But he had come to find had a sadness that he could no longer stand. And so he opted out. So it goes.

I hadn’t gotten the pleasure to meet him, though a pleasure I’m sure it was. But my whole fraternal order of employment comes together to send off one of our own. He had hundreds of folks, all willing to brave the temperate monsoon, just to show how grand he was. And he will be missed.

That night, I saw a play. I hardly want to admit that I enjoyed a romantic comedy, but I shall. Though, as goes with the unexpected in life, I found a profound personal symbolism in a few of the characters. Particularly the young, angry writer and the young woman he falls for, set to marry someone else. The young woman held a resemblance eerily similar to an old memory of mine. Uncanny like. Took me well off my guard and tricked me into enjoying a Rom-com. Though they lost me at the happy ending. Fantastic acting though.

But why list the goings on of this young fool’s weekend? Perspective, perhaps. We need a reference point and I suppose I should use my own. Not that I wouldn’t want to use yours, but I’m afraid I don’t know who you are. Even though I likely do know you in flesh, there isn’t a way I can tell which souls read any of this, unless the choose to tell me otherwise. My alter ego use could further that confusion.

But anyway.

I type my mind and make whatever sense of it can be made. And I tell you of the events that have passed me by, because I was thinking the whole time. As each occurrence occurs, I sculpt understanding with what tools I have. At times, I write it down. Others, I think it in a hole or to the stars. Some I fight and some I cling to. Some I wish for other circumstance. Some I talk about with a merry mob. And sometimes I wish we could be alone.

Observation is not the only method of living, but it is a big one. Because we wee humans, though try we might, cannot change every tide, every time. Despite moving mountains and fighting gravity, we are often at the mercy of that which we cannot control. And though it may be a futile fight, we go on. I know I do, and I’ll give you a hand. You must let me know, though. All this observation of life keeps my head in the clouds. Or up my own ass, as I’ve been told. But I’ve missed that which is right before me, though try otherwise I might.

And somewhere in between bearing witness to the universe, try to let the universe bear witness to you. Love while you can and cherish what you’ve got. Hell, I say cherish what you’ve lost! Particularly when it comes to romance.

But if you must live, which all the folks who are born must do for at least a little while, live your best. Laugh and dance and sing. Look each other in the eyes. Be intimate as grand and often as you can. Make something. Build something. Find something. Even that which you did not know that you were looking for. I dare say, those are the best things.

And help each other. Be there. And ask if you need someone there for you. Us humans, sometimes we don’t pay attention. All it takes is a little bit to start, no matter uphill the rest is.

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