Sunday Morning Thoughts: 4.21.19

The thought of there being nothing left for the day occured. Awful thing. I have since ignored it. At least for a little while longer.
It is down to ragged scraps over here. Maybe always was. The radio rattles on in the other room. I didn’t turn it off. Just turned it down. It’s an interview. Something to ignore.

I have more fingers than days left in this place. And the days behind me in aforementioned dwelling rise higher than my total gross income for most my college years.
It is not sadness. I will not miss the place. The neighborhood, sure. As much as anyone who chooses to interact social less with every passing year can miss a neighborhood. I’ll look back on these years. Though, when looking at my own way back reflection, I shall see no champion. Something much more battered. Inside and out. I will see much of a person of uncertainty. Though, not one of dishonesty. As much as any human beast is capable.
The meter has run up several hundred, maybe more miles since last was here. I supported comrade bands. I danced. Perhaps, I was a fool. But if so, a much more forgiving sort of kind.
Then I drank whiskey with friends now a decade in name. Until the sun rose, some of us. Or just about.
I slept, sparingly, and rose to the business of delusional, yet enthusiastic rock and roll. Preceded by a very solid couch session in two separate living rooms. Tremendous places of the shared aging process with the same cats ye once shared your more destitute youths. But after the second couch, oh so reminiscent of the severly stupid simplicity of the purple doored dorms of high education, I knew I must be off. So my deteriorating hungover ass drove all-the-fuck-way-to-rockaway-beach and played a wonderfully sweaty show at a place drenched in the last true living arteries of punk.
These friends were of the first from first leaving home. These friends, they still be now. Very, very lucky me.
I fucked with one of my guitars before the show. Yes, like an idiot. It was all off. Stupid me, indeed. The situation was just resolved minutes ago. Great timing. Two days after the show.
But hey, I sang pretty good. So was told and so I sort of thought.
And so, to report, the local scene lives on. More powerful in the hands of others, me thinks, but my hands are there all the same. And to me, that is a sign. A symbolic gesture set to tell that the hope of humanity still might be in humans. That we have not lost whatever essence is the sort that spurs stories. Even if none were ever real- the idea still is. That the hope to some sort of better, despite it’s perils (e.g. GoT 69), is still possible.
Accuse me of grandiose. I’m likely guilty. To hell with it.
Coldplay just came on the radio. Motivation has drained catastrophically. Thought trains have crashed. Someone fell asleep at the switch. Scores injured. Unknown further. Outlook grim.
There’s still more to be done, but not all that much for the next step. I suppose that’s what I mean to say. It is all getting there. Not by magic, or gods, or anything else as far as I can tell. Just the choices of humans. Me, from my point of view, and the rest of you, from yours and mine.
And I suppose, the view of me from you. Whatever that might be.

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