My feet are blistered. As are my hands. A familiar ache, better handled by the younger body inhabited upon the ritualistic initiation.
Though, to be fair to my current older self- the kid fell asleep in the bar the first St. Pat’s in a kilt.
Inversely, there was trouble trying to fall asleep last night. Despite the time. Despite the free shots and the exhaustion of the long march. I still had to ease myself into dream, whose subject I can no longer recall. Which may be a good thing. Nothing can get to you quite like your own unconcious mind.
I got there, eventually. And it ended, as you now read.
There is a bottle of wine (unopened) and two glasses (unused) upon the self. The host left it. Me thinks this room may have been intended for the use of a romantically involved couple. Whoops. May have accidently filled it with a mild stench of loneliness. I’m it will come right out.
There are others, strangers, staying here. It seems an interesting place, with interesting folks as clientele. Perhaps I should have spent more time here rather than out where I was, staggering with the hoard. I wonder this as I hear these other scurrying about. Beautiful, but old. It creaks and such. You can hear footsteps down the hall. Likely, one of they may even hear the tap of this old bum. I have to leave by 11.
From there, back up across America. Most of the thirteen colonies. I broke the drive up on the way down. We shall see what I am up for on the way back north. What thoughts might find me. I will be stuck with only myself, as has been for much of this trip. Funny thing to be alone in a room of people. To be alone while holding the court of social conversation. Yet somehow feel the possibility more for connection as these words go on, sitting by myself, in an old house in Georgia.
I could have played the game, as they say. I know what it takes, in a vague enough sense. Its a belief struggle, you see. Am I willing to sacrifice the one for the other? Fulfilling a perceived need at the cost of a believed want? The less idyllic reality for the more psychotic fantasy? I am this, or am I full of shit? Choices, choices.
I suppose I haven’t been truly in solitude. Darcy is with me. Showing her down through where the Civil War was fought. And these blisters are well earned. Not many people in kilts get called a rockstar these days. For me, it’s every time I play. Bandana donned, he kept the eyes on the band. Relentlessly.
It’s an old habit. Feeling as though I’m missing something. Missing someone. And it has cost me in the past. Heavily. Cost other folks, too. Some lovely humans.
And every time, thus far, at least- it ends up being for naught. Old dog, though. Old tricks, if any.
But it is a symbolic time of solar cycle, for me. And it shan’t be totally wasted. And we have yet to see what a few hundred miles of driving is still to stir in me. And the traveling is nice, but heart belongs to my home parade. Might be my last one living in the neighborhood. So add that to the pile, symbolism junkie.
There is sunburn on my face. Remind me to get to a beach this summer. It’s been a decade. I could use it. I’ve been lacking on my sun worship. Just been feeding on the second hand shine of the moon. But Sol talks to everyone, all the time. When the lunar body speaks, I feel I’m the only one to hear her speak. To feel unique, even if it isn’t true.