Almost weaseled my way out of this one. No such luck. Enough life is left in my mind this evening, and enough ideas were scratched out upon paper to convince your humble narrator to practice this exercise in vanity, yet again. We’ll see how it goes. Potentially (likely) horribly. Perhaps profound, but we shall let my waning cognition determine whether there is anything worthwhile to be bled from the stone of today’s existence.

The blue light reflected back from the ebony surface of my keyboard beckons me to inquire some further level of my sentience. To really dig at the whys and why bothers of all this, and all other outward expressions I always seem to bother with and be bothered by. The mountain of uncompleted tasks, bureaucratic and existential alike. And a list that never seems to do anything even somewhat resembling reduction. So many things that have waited in line for far longer, yet right to the desired velvet rope this always seems to skip. The blessing of its timely based title. This here, being my Friday night lights. Which of course, is nothing other than a scrambled-out ramble after consuming a few several beers with my kindred songwriter types, dear friends, on a Monday evening.

We listened to obscure country folk from a guy who self-proclaims himself with the name ‘Snok’- and a great, but perhaps underappreciated, in terms of overall popular culture record, by the one known, among other names, as the Boss. And then my comrades departed, and I put on another pressed plastic circle containing the sounds of one of those influences, that I often forget in my absentmindedness. One that holds a title of priority in the sonic seduction that lays a great claim to whatever bastardized thing I might call a style.

But none of that is really what I seem to be thinking about, this evening. And to not be accused of false advertising, I’d better get on with it.

     This year (approximately) will mark (though exactly when is a bit beyond my ability as a mathematician) a third of a century for my personal go about within existence. Could be an age of mid-life crisis (though that was really something I got out of the way philosophically in my mid-to-late twenties). It could be me not knowing how close to death’s door I’ve been galivanting and carrying on about this whole time, or as of late, at the very least.

That means, more or less, that were one hundred years in the playing for the length of my lifetime- I am closer still to the halfway mark. And no matter what the extent of this timeline ends up being, I have now made the relentless march further into another decade. Thus far, the most vulnerable I’ve had. And in some ways, the age that has garnered the most agency available, in this, such a world of dread and chaos. 

Existing, here, as I am, a fully functioning and contributing member of this world and society, both in macro and the more micro.

So, let’s exist. You and I, if only for a moment.

I was bouncing about ideas, earlier today, as my notebook would indicate- bouncing about ideas of impermanence and the pertinence of legacy. That ideas that live beyond our own grave assignment somehow symbolically grant us immortality. Decades of influence may vary.

I think, as always, of my failure. Numerous they may be, and the debts I’ve accrued within all that, some of which that will never be fully repaid.

And I think of that flame of spirit, once believed, foolishly (as fools are oft to do) to be ever present.  And those same motives, now embers, currently tended with more care and consideration. The very same, that perhaps someday will be doomed to fade. In fact, I know for certain that someday this will all be reduced down to less than a spark, eventually to die down until gone. And once gone, gone it shall stay for an eternity, or so it would seem.

Then, suddenly, he stopped attempting to type away for the evening. Really though, full scene change. That last paragraph was the last bit I found myself able to muster, before retiring for the evening. And by evening, I actually mean close to one in the morning.

So now, I sit myself down on this now fading morning and fight the urge to totally erase everything before I started writing again with the late break of this new day. I haven’t even gone back and read what came before all this, so the specifics of its contents are still a bit of mystery to me. At my most pessimistic, I’ll probably think it trash. Optimistically, it might be funny. Sure as shit, its full of grammatical and phrasing nightmares, and smelling ever so slightly of a bar mat. Just slightly, though. Much more responsible these days.

Which may not be saying all that much. Monday evenings tend on the more mild side than those old Sunday mornings, for all you fans out there. But saintly behavior has yet to get its grip on me, and I doubt it ever truly will.

But the late ending brought about a late start, as I have been fortunate to be granted that luxury (or vice) today. There is a scratched out sticky note on the kitchen table whose ink-based residents are made up of tasks, deemed particularly worthy of today’s time. A yellow one, I believe. Haven’t looked at it in over an hour. There is always the chance that none of that reaches a state of accomplishment.

But I think I need to fill this day with deeds, whether the piece of paper has anything to do with that or not.

I’ve been chewing away at my own mind regarding the idea of time management. The word squander has been thematically echoing about the ol’ noggin. I might have even already mentioned all that in the nonsense from last evening- the nonsense that I still refuse to look at. You all can acknowledge its existence, if you want. Me allowing those opening paragraphs to live beyond the Crtl A and backspace does not mean that I accept them.

I’m sure I mentioned above about the approaching turning of age impending upon me. Symbolic, of sorts. Or at least I’m making it out to be. A third through a century, which likely means more than that much through a life. Based on the current available stats, not accounting for anomaly either which way.

It is easy enough, I think, to count a life down in years. But it can get boiled down further. It has a finite number of weeks, of days. Hours, minutes, seconds. The predestination types would probably gather that number is set from the start. But as you likely already know, I’m not really one of those types.

I think you can squander, just as you can fight for more. Is it a limitless well? Not that any of us seem to know… unless you’ve been holding out on us. But I believe the fight for years happens in the minutes. In the seconds of attention and effort, or necessary lack thereof. And I would have to imagine that is the same place our time gets lost. In fact, I know it does.

I went to sleep a bit abysmal last night. I had failed, as I saw it. My more rational refreshed mind knows now that I knew that then before I started. Bold, if not foolish, to think I would be able to muster some sort of satisfying outward thinkings being up too late after a small social gathering containing beer and Bruce. Not me, though I was there. Talking about the Boss. Probably already said that though, right?

Either way, the dopamine seems to be struck alright and the sense of accomplishment I need to get her seems to be got good enough to make the seconds turn to hours, until we find ourselves here again next week.

Hopefully, I’ll have something better for you. No promises though. It could very easily be worse.