There is much to write about. That I could write about.

People.

Their faces. Their moments. The way they sway, sound and smile. Laugh and cry and love. How they wander. And how they take root. And grow. And how part of a person can be stuck in time. Frozen. The amber of the moment, if you will. And what it is to see someone you haven’t seen in ages. To hear their heart pour into words. If only just almost.

I could write of places.

A local bar from not my neighborhood that can smell very much like a local bar. The nearly quite streets of early morning, interrupted by little more than the distance roar of engines going fast and the intimate stubble of a drunk or two.

I could write of art.

Of we, us bold and foolish few, chasing what dreams we can while we can. Of we, sick and stupid few who can no longer stop. How if expression is not made, implosion might occur.

The problem is, at the moment, I feel a great many ways about a great many things. So, shall we? Try and mash this up into something?

I think we shall.

So, dig.

We tried something yesterday. We weren’t sure how it would go. Looking back, we should have known better. We should have known it would go this way because you cannot get this particular group of humans together without this going down. And this group always reaches out and finds others to lure in. I was an other once. Now I am not. Now I am in. Have been. Me thinks for life, at this point. We should have known this would happen, us all in a room together.

We succeeded. Goals were met, then surpassed and other business went down that no one quite expected. I for one, did not imagine that being asked to play one more tune at the end of the night would turn into well over and hour of spontaneous jamming. Folks who had never met before making incredible music. So good, that folks couldn’t stop dancing. Which as you may know, keeps a party bumping. As the kids say.

Oh, and we raised money for a specific cause that is dear to a portion of the population. Only the folks who have been affected by cancer, through themselves or a loved one or something of the sort. You know, just at minimum ninety-eight percent of the planet’s total sentient beings.

But this event, and especially the people that make it happen, never not pull my heartstrings. Not just because of where we all are now. But as I remember how we all once were. Some lonely kids looking for something always out of reach. Elegant destitution.

And now, look at these men and women we’ve grown to be. Professionals. Entrepreneurs. Philanthropists. Parents.

We spoke, her and I. A her from long ago. Another lifetime, it feels like. And so, we spoke, when we could as much as we could. Which never did seem to be enough.

She said something about keeping a person in the corners of her heart. Peculiar for a generally round thing to have, but I know of its existence. What it is to keep someone somewhere inside. Preserved in whatever you see the purest form might be. And there they live, always a part. As you might be for someone else. As I am. Or so I’ve been told.

Perhaps it is selfish to do such a thing. To steal someone away from time and hold them for as long as can be held. But I don’t believe it wicked.

And maybe it is unwise and unhealthy to cling to moments. That slippery slope to obsession. Baggage, which pop-culture therapists generally agree is a bad thing.

And yet I believe that you can hold moments for as long as you live. Even if only a single moment, if you so choose. The requirement though, is to know that moment will never be again. And that is alright. Knowing myself, I’d probably fuck it up were the exact opportunity were to arise again.

If only speaking for myself, a moment or two is a very valuable entity to carry in life. Though it is implied here that carrying means you’re moving. As you must. Always forward. For as we say, we ain’t kids anymore.

And be grateful. Something I must often remind myself. It is easy to think of the heartbreak in our pasts. But remember how lucky you are to have a heart in the first place. To have felt anything at all, let alone enough to hurt.

Try not to hold on to the hurt. Keep the rest of it. That some sort of something that was real and grand. Keep the moment, even though the rest may be gone forever.

It’s alright to keep what was in a corner. Stored away, as though photos in an old dusty box. Old box. Fresh dust. It does get taken out here and there. Admired for what it was. Then back it goes, until the next time it is needed.