It’s not evening. The time I’m writing this. It’s morning. Feels like a Sunday, funny enough. For all you historians of this nonsense. Might be that I’m feeling like a younger man today, all stupid and sick and such.

Might be that my old nemesis is back around, might be that she never left. The impossible, that being. The relentless fight against that which cannot be done. My worst habit, out of a not entirely exclusive list. The desire to change that which must stay, in willing ignorance of matters of fact and circumstantials.

The vast expanse beyond my window in the somber grey dawn almost got me, in all the early morning sleeplessness. But it didn’t.

Some sweat, some Celtic styled coffee, the old phonograph and a broom in hand, off into the day I go. Somehow, still one of my mightiest forms, for better or worse. Used to be I could sacrifice an entire day to some sort of drummed up emotions. Not a luxury afforded for a long time now. Nor one that I think would be welcomed back, even if a return was so decided. There’s laundry to do, and these floors are a mess, and I must gather myself before work, at least a little bit.

It’s another one of those days. The sort where I’m certain that everyone is having a grand time, except your humble narrator. What’s worse, I fear that my cultivation of such times for others will never not lead to this vague woe. Makes one wonder what the evolutional benefit could possibly be got out of such waves of feeling.

Morning is turning to midday, as I putz about trying to get the physicals of my existence back in order, stopping by here to punch out a few thoughts as they dance and stagger across my neurons. That and a notebook, sitting on the kitchen table, filling herself with all my horseshit lines. Much easier life might be, were I not addicted to these exercises in vanity. But knowing myself, easy is not what draws me to life. The fight, the challenge, the conquest of sentience- these continue to be why breath gets drawn with as much vigor as each day might muster. That, and the purposes beyond my own self. Duty, and such, in all her varying forms. Always served, whatever cost.

There was a tremendous group of beautiful people singing songs not but a few hours ago. Right here, in the next room, just over there. Real blood and guts stuff. The sort of souls I always seem to find, no matter which unpredicted ends I keep finding myself. It’s a powerful enough thing, music made by humans in a room. Eats away and etches out its marks on all aspects of my soul. Taps into the cosmic types of ideas, and while never being specific, tells you all about them. Life, the universe, everything, etc. Might be I had a bit too much ethanol, but hell, I was already home.

Theres always the chemical balance to consider. The height of the precipice precedes the breathlessness of the fall. Or else, all would be flat and who could stand such a state for being?

I’ve wrangled some of that balance back, as the morning sways away to afternoon. I’ll keep at it until around equilibrium, not assuming there is ever such a static state. And knowing that from outside, tides might make all this progress for naught, just to have to be built up again from some ruin.

Skimmed through that notebook. Mostly ideas I’m aiming to get away from. Enough good could just be got from putting them down to paper. Sometimes saying it is enough to ease it towards resolution, if not resolutely defining the endings. Better to reflect upon the fortunes being had than gripe about all that isn’t. He said, knowing himself better than that.

But there’s a new tree in the yard. Thought it was going to be a maple, ended up with a peach. The woman at the nursery talked me into it, but it must have been because I was feeling so charming that day. It does happen, from time to time.

Planted her yesterday, with friends. Someone had the idea for each of us to write out something and place it under the roots, before the rest of the dirt returned from whence it came. Wishes, or dreams, or the like. I wrote a poem, knowing all about the regular futility of hope. I’ll always wonder and never know what got planted by the others present. A good bit of fun in that, secrets never to be witnessed. Seems something mythic or mystic within that, or maybe I’m just going mad. Though, we’re all mad around here, so at least I have company.

      Starting to feel a better grip on the day, even if only in illusion. The perpetual combat between heart and mind has reached a stasis, albeit likely only temporary. Wistful wants and pragmatic needs and their always almost fatal ballroom routine. Still glad to reach for the unattainable, even with all the cautionary burn marks. Being dumb, regularly, but not stupid. After all, I’ve made enough mistakes to learn from a few of them. Even if it only how to act when all that inevitable is about.

      Was talking to a friend about life, as one does. Both of us being in quandaries of our own brand and partial making, she asked what is it that we live for? I said it might be about grabbing hold of those fleeting moments when they’re around, and managing how much you miss them once they are unavoidably gone. As everything gets to being gone, eventually. Some things just have longer bouts than others. Can’t really predict what ends up being what, the misses and hits. And realization generally only occurs after the flight of particular experiences. Though I do often wish my cynicism had less accuracy than it always seems to end up having. Yet with that, I’ll recall a line from a song about that not being wisdom, just a lazy way to say you’ve been burned. Especially when so much of it tends to stem from within my own skull.

      Might have seemed quick to you, but I’ve been working at these words all day. Evening has arrived, and I am settling into my place of employment for the next two dozen hours. Onward with the thoughts still, I’m sure, but this will be the last I’ll be forcing outward. Never really able to write these well here. Distracted, I suppose, trading in chaos as my living is earned.

      There was something out of that notebook, resting open faced upon the table. An idea that might seem grim, at first, but is an idea I think worth thinking.

      I was wondering about my own funeral.

One of those things that you never get to experience your own, even if everyone else does. Not to suggest I believe such an occasion is in any immediate future. Quite the opposite. But she is there, always in wait, Lady Death. But on the topic of my final event, the thought I had was hoping that it be a good time. Like, a really good time. Not some drab and dark huddling of the souls I leave behind, but quite literally a party. The biggest ever thrown, if I have my way. A celebration of life to whisper one last breath of immortality before even that all slips away. I’d like the laughter to outnumber the tears. Telling of tales of my efforts, both foolish and mighty. Memories brought to life in some near tangible spectral form. Maybe a few whispers of longing, but only to be concluded in the sweetest of sighs, before recalling back to brighter days. 

And I’d want music. All my favorite folks singing all my favorite tunes. Loud enough to have the cops called, would be nice.

Then shoot me into space. To have words with the maker, if there even is one.