An infinite amount of thoughts and emotions have been dolled out, digested and ditched since we last met here. And yet the daunting glow of this page still mostly blank seems to strike so many from my mind. Metaphysical stage fright, I suppose. So, I’d best get on with pushing through. The show must go on, as it were.

There was a great spell of self-deprecation about your narrator not but a day ago. Before that, a sense of musical connection shared among a few of us apes, both familiar and strange. A sensation that I have been attempting to feed more, as of late. Perhaps as a supplement towards some greater adulation within existence, perhaps as a distraction from something else. Both of those intentions happening, back and forth, would be most likely. As I find often happens in my own mind and heart.

But a sleep deprived start made no effort to lessen the feeling of failure that hung about yesterday. We got through, of course. Helped along by repeating movies lines to co-workers that I felt most comically portrayed the emotes hovering about.

Eight goddamn whiskey sours?

Without getting too self-psychoanalytical, I’ve come to be able to tell these bouts of weakness coming on, and am better than ever at deflecting, or better still, at invoking transmutation of all that self-made woe into something better, or at least something else. It is less of a revocation of blame for a perceived mistake, but more an acceptance of the errors being made, the very same that are likely impossible to be unmade. Only the intention of prevention in the future, via some lesson learned, is the worthwhile endeavor going forward. Go on out there again and make some new mistakes. You can handle it, kid. You’ve been through plenty already, none of which has been the breaking point. Might as well keep on keepin’ on.

I caught myself apologizing to my younger self, back in the depressive bout had last. This was alone, and outloud, as I am oft to do in such states. A muttering mantra of sorts.

But as the words left my skull, I felt another confession arise. Perhaps it is he who should apologize to me. My past to my present. After all, he’s the one that made all these messes. I just keep waking up each day to find them, broom in hand to alleviate the decay, if only for a little while.

I believe it boils down to determining the density of my desires. And what superficials might mold it away or towards this or that reality. The contrast between the hopes and wants, and the tactical realities of this life I have woven thus far. And although you should never say never, and anything is possible, and etc.- there are points of passing that change the possibilities moving forward. And the fixation of ‘what was supposed to be’, something I am still regularly guilty of, is easily the most delicious and vicious hole one can dig. A morphine drip of ideas one promises to the self, crippling any ability to go on and make some new fortune come forth.

But I no longer aim to dwell in such caverns. And even when forced to pass by, I keep enough of my mind to not get dragged back to residing there. Even if the ol’ heart would like to make dance the puppet of my wistful and unfulfilled desires.

Still, I choose to be cautious of ideas towards impossibility, no matter how pragmatic they may appear. And even in those self-contained externally audible soliloquies I perform for myself, I still refuse to let the can’ts and won’ts and other such negations prevent the conjuring of the next possibility. For that new way might be the very way to get to the seat of some deeper sought desire. Or the exposure of something even better, unbeknownst to the being sitting in the here and now-ish.

Otherwise, I wouldn’t be writing you from here. The location all these arrive from, most recently. My little home in the woods. It’s one of the anniversaries that are hanging about at the time of this here clicking and clacking. Half a decade here in paradise valley. A full decade being professionally occupied in the vocational trade that men in my bloodline have been in for at least, or approximately, a century straight. I still have research to do on that one, but estimates would put it right around a tenth of a millennium.

But, anyway.

All these things to have, though, and so easily we think of all that is not. And for yours truly, that is always paired and partnered with a sense that incorrect action, or inaction, is to blame for whatever fate personally attained. Something I know to be not entirely true, but the emotional idea is less easy to satiate.

Thankfully, I get regularly granted outside affirmations of a worthy sense of being from those other souls I continually am given the pleasure to know. And even as circumstances change, like my entire life being uprooted and relocated about one hundred miles away from where formerly intended, there is always space for the kindred spirits. The sort that confirm that if not refuted, some of those insanities sensed are at the very least something more universal. Some shared benevolent psychosis, shared among like-minded souls.

And while many of the constant folks are just that- I seem to be bolder in fortune still, for the entrance of new beings within the range of my existence. And as I know from the unpredictables that are now the permanent past- there are new folks marching in and about all the time. Might be one of an original meeting far from either of your homes, now turned into the closest sort of bonds you might get to have in this life. Could be a random chance passing turns into the sort of dichotomy that Hallmark likes to make movies about. If you know me, or at least know me here, you are likely aware of my skepticism with such ideas. But that doesn’t mean I believe them entirely impossible, however improbable.

It would be worse, I think to not have any desires to begin with rather than fail at the desires had. The fear being greater regarding developing numbness, the total abstention of aspiration- as opposed to the falling short of sought hopes and wants altogether. And though never completely, I seen down the scope of both of those to know which I would rather have become part of my story. I’d still rather feel hurt, than feel nothing at all. And I aim to keep at that for this whole go about in life, even if consistency ebbs and goes.

Because if I felt nothing, I wouldn’t be sitting here, sorting out the clutter of my mind. I wouldn’t feel the need to make sonic impression to friends and strangers, both outward and inward together. And I’d rather feel the weight of my own follies, than be unaffected by them completely. It is far from easy, and the heaviness is often unquantifiable- but onward to the next great failure I know I must go. Might be a design flaw, but I internally itch to still see and be and feel more.

Which means I’ll likely be here again next week, if you agree to meeting. And if you don’t, I’ll still likely come back. Even if all by my lonesome.