Sunday Morning Thoughts: 6.9.19

Rust grows quick on the fingers. Hasn’t been all that long… or has it been an eternity? I can scarcely recall the difference.

It has been rough, though. of sorts. And in other ways, more simplistic. The desk which I used to know so well is broken down and stored in a climate-controlled cage a mile or so from where I now sit. And where I sit, is where I grew up, as the kids say.

It will never not be familiar. And it will never be as was. I can almost see the ghost of my sometimes sulking teenage self, strolling about the halls. The smell of his fears. The echo of his ability unknown to him. The feeling of not knowing what was to come. The sight of belief inward, strangely, more prominent than what the wiser self sees inside today.

But that kid didn’t really think all that much of himself. Not yet. And as history has shown, in my very biased mind, it is when he thinks so little of what he can do, that he can do the most.

I have not gone back to look when the last of these was done. For though it is the habit I fail the most to maintain, it is best not to base the now too much on what was. Nor the what will be on what is. Or the what was as the why for why the what will be is you, as a lonely loser.

It just doesn’t add up.

I already have vague but seriously intended plans to put my toes in the sand of at least one northeast beach this summer. I got sunburn yesterday. I’ve been running more than I have for much of most of the last decade. And I ditched the hole in which I used to sulk for the greener pastures of the stress of the conspiracy of homeownership. I haven’t been writing much, it is true- but my hands were not sat upon.

Hell, a week ago, I greatly helped to facilitate, in a rather humungous way, the making of several thousand dollars towards the research to eliminate a widespread and devastating disease all whilst in the guise of sharing beers and songs and stories with now decade long had friends.

Nothing is not a thing much within my capabilities, it seems.

And though this may have been neglected, it was not ignored. For the rest of my days, it likely seems, not a Sunday will pass without thought of this. And what it is, or was, or will be. Or why it ever went on to begin with. And though what once was, is not, and, may never wield any weight again- it was, once, and so (according to most of the literature, poetry and science fiction I’ve consumed), it shall be some sort of eternal. At least until the circuits fry in my skull. Or the rest of the production begins to turn back into dirt, or dust, or worm food.

I think of organics, but not of plants. I think of fate, but more how doom so elegantly molds us. I think I have made a structure I cannot afford to lose- in this and a good many other ways. Of those structures I imagined into reality. A might all the beasts called human can hold, if they be of such convictions.

The bad habits, though. They fight so efficiently. And the connection to the unconnected is still sought out. Click. Swipe. Drag and drop. So on, and so on. And though it is good and grand and sometimes benevolent to connect to those unconnected- were it to be by the means of the disconnected, shall serve no one but the separation standards that repel us all from one and another.

Or what have you.

I don’t know if I will type again next week. I may not. On this weekend of past, I used to go pretend to be a dirty hippy. This one next occurring, I shall instead take my daughter to some different all-day musical gathering. One whose inception and subsequent occurrence greatly influenced the cleaning of the historic river which I can call my home.

I believe, it will also be her first time on a train. I do hope she enjoys herself. I have a feeling that she will.

Time rolls on. And we, play whatever parts are to be played.

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