Feasting upon some auburn twilight, I thought of insignificance. My own, of course, but on a grander scale as well. As funny as that may seem.

Grand insignificance. Ha. Glad to see my humor isn’t lost yet.

The television spoke about the anniversary of a war- as we humans seem to love, or need, so very much. Plenty of folks seem to have potent opinions about all that. Statistically, it is also someone’s wedding anniversary. A few birthdays, as well. Though, less people have opinions on those. Maybe a breakup or two, but the exact dates on those can get a bit sketchy. They lack the official type of ceremonious ritual that some other occurrences wield.

The people behind the screens went on about a storm, too.

Set to hit the continent, hundreds of miles from where I sit, clacking away to oblivion. Perfect weather here, were you to ask me, while within this very same nation panicked preparations occur while us little beasts attempt to stand up to, or at least not succumb to the massive forces of nature impending upon what I’d reckon to be a few million souls, or at least all their worldly possessions if they themselves managed to skedaddle out of harm’s way. I’d like to think it won’t happen, but folks will likely meet the end of their mortal coil because of this mass of atmospheric pressure and turbulence and whatnot. Often times, it’s the folks trying to help those who cannot seem to help themselves that get dealt a fatal blow. But maybe this storm, we’ll get off scot-free, my optimism hopes.

But you know better than that, don’t you? That is not the way these things go, rebuked my side more aligned with pragmatic reason.

Plenty of folks have opinions about such storms. But none hold the might to stop them. And in arguing about cause, responses tend to lean on antiquated inefficiencies. Or just finger pointing after the barometric behemoth washes its way back out to sea, unconcerned with any destruction left in its wake.

I suppose that could lead into me thinking about futures. Again, my own, of course- or what’s left of it. Which is plenty, my optimism hopes again.

But some options are gone, and I suppose I worry about the certainty of which ones those might be. Can’t really know until it all comes to pass, if even then- though I still hold out for some unpredictables. That being said, there are ideas about my head regarding which doors are now closed in this timeline, despite the ranting of my more sanguine mind. Could be that I’ll be surprised, though. On occasion, believe it or not, I have been wrong.

Either tragically or heroically, or a bit of both, I have a tendency towards the addiction to impossibilities. I love a hopeless seeming fight, you see. It makes for a more interesting story. And I still haven’t learned better than to squeeze something out of this life aside from making sure it is a story worth telling. Self-made legacy sickness, or the like.

 But there is still that gasping anticipation of what has yet to come. Or the ignorance of what is already lost, simple three-dimensional being that I seem to be sentenced to being.

But, anyway.

Been reading books from within my own ages passed, as of late. Perhaps just a steady drip from the ol’ nostalgia habit. But something else, me thinks, as well. At least a bit, it is a breaking apart of the sanctities of yesteryear. Another part is to keep alive the true purpose and potency of these works. Reclaim them for myself, not surrendering them to time now gone. Ingesting them in the present, forbidding allowance to some sort of symbolic taboo. Keeping them from being locked within the confines of memory.

And partly because they are great stories, the kind I hope to turn out some kin of my own, someday. And even a little bit in all this aimless rambling, occurring weekly.  

There was a line I read today.

“Infinity is flat and uninteresting.”

As I’d imagine was intended, it invokes laughter, or something similar. And then it gets the mind to pondering, being simultaneously intended. If you want to know the book, you can likely type that quote into however you fetch your internet and find it that way. Do a little work for yourself, will you? I know you have a connection to the web, or else you wouldn’t be here now. With me. In this projection of my current state of mind.

But there will be people arriving soon, so this stream of babbling will break for now. For you, it will be an instant. For me, I cannot yet say. I expect I’ll rob some inspiration from these two friends, about to be upon my doorstep.

A few hours later, and only few written words, the B-side to a Waits record is playing. Listened to the first half as closing to spending time with a few choice, brilliant, knuckleheaded companions. I told them outright that I would attempt to steal the inspiration to wrap this all up from them, so let’s see how that goes. I’d hate to be a dishonest thief.

On some sort of insane sense of pride or present tense priority, I have not looked back on what was already written. Ever onward, as it were.

But there was discussion regarding the point that art begins and ends, among plenty of other nonsense. So, I wonder where the line of artistic endeavor intersects with the gratification of satisfaction for any of those that end up consuming those sorts of things, whatever those expressions might end up being. It was generally agreed upon, among us few sitting about in the living room, that there is a responsibility to provide something to the folks that you might be pushing all this self-expression on. Under the lens of music, in this evening’s particular discussion example, but me thinks it must be applicable elsewhere.

So how might that apply here?

In at least a section of the whole, this picking apart of my own mind must contain some of those more universal types of truths. Or if not that big, of galactic scale. Or maybe just worldly, or the next size down. Human stuff, though, for sure. Of them, vaguely, things like success, despair, romance, and other types of love, and so on. Some of which I am more likely to attack directly than others, for whatever reason a psychologist or spiritualist might suggest.

Romance being the obvious avoidant. Don’t see me mutter much about that here. Fear, perhaps, or rather at least partially, for certain. Privacy, for another. For both my true identity, whatever the hell that means, or other concerning parties, whether aware of it or otherwise. Historically, or the still might yet to be.

Yet despite that, such ideas drive me. And though I am not the sickly malcontent of my younger days, that theme is still one of the shoves still invoked in moving forward. Romance, meaning. And despite failure, and circumstantial pragmatism associated with the operation of the existence I’ve wrought for myself thus far- the heart in its cage still has enough life within to at the very least wonder about such lofty convictions. Whether such things will ever dance my way in earnest again, I cannot say. And whether I can even manage such tasks remains in question.

But the spirit of that thing must continue to live on. Or, at least, transpose those kinds of minds and intentions into some other expression. Be it but a lonely bellowing out of desire, fabricated enough to reveal some truth within the lie. You know, like a song.

Despite not reading it back, I recall the discussions of war and suffering, be it by the human hand or mother nature herself, got at towards the opening. And I don’t suspect the end of those in any near proximity. But I know why perseverance continues beyond them. It those stupid inexplicable things like love, in all her forms. The love of parent to child, etc. The love of one heart vying for dichotomy with another. The love for our peers, or near about, and the sharing and splicing of experience that occurs within that.

Funny enough, or maybe not funny at all, some of those things are the sort that humans would easily deem worthy of terrible acts. In protection of, in some sort of otherwise vengeance. History grants us the perspective of cycle within such exchanges- yet as they could not, neither do we seem to be able to see our own stature as wheel cog within the repetition. The flaw of a brief existence.

Or maybe, the beauty in it. Not the consequences, just the gusto of it all. That stride towards the impossible, despite assured, or at least likely, doom.

Now I remember.

There was a line from a book I was going to go on about. Infinity being dull, or something like that. And I think I agree with the sentiment. The whole of existence being experienced, despite the claims to that being the very search from within the core of the human soul- would be rather boring. Underwhelming with how overwhelming it is. Blank, in all its everything.

No, I think I like the finite bits better. Never knowing which is the next one to earn the temporary immortality within the electrochemical perception of our very cosmological existence. The elation of being within the very moments you know doomed to fail. Holding tight, while tight can be held. Eventually, it will fail.

But that fight, even if fruitless- that is the sort of stuff that makes a good story. Which also happens to be the sort of stuff that I would deem the most worth living. You could disagree, but that’s for you to reckon with. I’ll continue to grab hold of the fleeting moments, lest they turn to their inevitable dust before I get to know a try. Or whatever otherwise associated sensation.