The night before last was one of short sleep and antagonistically active dreams. Not nightmares, though those are not unknown by your narrator. These were of a different kind. The sort that gets right at one, in ways that can only be done from the unguarded inside. The sort that when one returns from the waking word, a thoughtless expletive can easily fall mirthless from the lips.

So, a rough start.

After laboring for the day, I found myself roving about a neighborhood once walked, looking for parking. In that city that my nostalgia holds dear, though the place itself is not quite the same.

I had seen a small production not far from there, ages ago. Collegiate small-time sort, a play of anthologized stories in the typical closet of a theater. These were my romantic days, as I recall them. A middle-aged woman with the rarer sort of natural hair colors gave me a chocolate from the several she had brought with her. I doubt she ever knew we were there to see the same person. Always wondered what it might have been like had our lives grown as intwined as I thought at that time they were destined to be. Oh well. A bit of candy is plenty nice enough.

I only recollect one of the shorter performances among the several, for this show that all of us were at. That particular one was a bit about how if you went and sat enough monkeys in front of enough typewriters for a long enough time, eventually, they would produce one of the most well-known works of the very early 17^th century, totally on chance. I knew one of the monkeys, though I suppose that maybe I never really did. Can’t remember any of the rest of the show. A few other things I remember from that night, and those few nights, though it might be I’m just remembering incorrectly, for not the first nor the last time.

But anyway, that’s all old news.

This time. No theater this time. Still a stage. Just rock music instead of more straight up thespian behaviors. Saw a rock band, one I know and have known. A still permeating presence whose origins lie within my nostalgia land, though the band has changed.

As have I. As we all have.

A worthy venture filled with a few thought experiments still being churned and burned and sorted out.

As I sit now, the thought arose about all the mistakes that I’ve yet to make. Judging on the pattern from past to present, there must be at least few more to be made. Or several thousand, depending on perception of magnitude. I tend to ignore the more current ones. Or at least suppress them until management gets an opportunity to process them. Thankfully, my faculties are corrupt enough to just toss many of the records right from mind, rather than confront and address them through the channels deemed proper by standard operating procedures. Yet there is always a persistence among some, perhaps promoting their own worth in a blatant fashion that only a fool such as I could effectively ignore.

Or, there is always the contrary. That the condemnation of my faults and folly are just an indiscriminate method of concealing self-righteousness. Falling short of my own dreamt up legend, sustained by the delusion from whence it came.

 I wonder whether as (or if) this species progresses- will the defaults and dysfunctions be done away with? And I wonder whether that is for the best.

But what stands to be lost with the standardization of human existence?

Many an argument made about the reduction of creativity in such a setting. And I must admit, this one of those ideas that perils my heart so vastly. That with the improvement of one’s self, as it were, the correlation with the creative would fall in the inverse. And, oh, what is a new luddite like me supposed to dream when all is safe and sound and certified to the blandest standard?

Again, such thoughts may just be the unconscious justification of bad behavior. But I still think there must be more than that.

I saw a band, last night. And knowing the people in the band certainly adapts the experience. Still, there is something serene in the motion of ruckus making, having done and witnessed plenty thus far, and plenty more to be and see still to go. Something about how to effectively pour out one’s heart, the damn thing better be as full as you can get it, if you expect any sort of waves being made. And maybe the heart fill quicker when younger, but I wonder about the substance there. The fickle heart of human spring fills easily with experience and ambitions that lack in density, among lacking in other things.

These days, I’d rather wait out a bit more decay and kinetic introspection before tilting the vessel towards empty. In terms of both offense and defense, I’d rather a heart filled with boiling oil and tar to pour out once when needed for maximum efficacy, than some incessant vomit of some limp spring dew to little avail aside the refreshment of my adversarial perspective.

I say that now. A week from now, I may be fluttering through the meadow of blind positivity- all hope tied to the elation of existence, in a symbiotic relationship graded gently towards the gradually decline of my fleshy vessel.

Or, in a week, I may have some new outlook, incongruent in so many ways with the thought waves radiated previous. I guess we shall see then.