There is a record playing the background.

Among the abstinence of music while conducting these experiments these last few moons, the last time I recall having an album going in the background, led to a rather wonderful bout of Monday thinkings, no matter what followed in my actual existence afterward. The last one was that of a friend’s creation. Tonight’s is a person who was dead before I ever knew had existed, and yet, I still find to be a kindred spirit through the art left behind.

You can ask me about them, later, if you’d like.

It does allow me to dig into the seasonal symbolism I’ve been playing with this last cycle’s go around. The feeling of wilting and withering along with the leaves felt quite potent as autumn turned to winter. And now, I sit typing away as the world of my immediate surroundings in space and time lies quiet and covered in frozen water, all still in its build of potential energy upon the hoped for thawing.

So, understand, these themes play within my mind and spirit as we march towards whatever end will be got at here. An end, that as of now, even I do not know. So, find it, shall we? Together, if you’d like. Or I’ll just be getting towards it on my own.

I seem to be ever bounding between the spectrum of numbness and obsession. Of feeling and seeing too much, or nothing much at all. And most of the time is spent in the ether between the two. Knowing the cost of bearing my soul to the world like an exposed nerve, as well as the toll of stone-hearting my way through this sentience. Never static, though. Not yet, at least. Always the in-between. More this way or that-a-way, depending on the time and tides.

This evening in particular feels quite aligned to some mean middle. That could change, turning upon a dime, with your humble narrator having little say in the matter. Or all the say. Mood and other outside metrics, all playing their parts.

Generally, I am behaving and performing my worst when the obsession spectrum shifts itself towards the comparison of this self against some other, or others. Inversely, this machine is at its most efficient, as I observe, when the comparisons are never against anything aside from the current or former versions of self that are ever slipping their way from present to past. The nosedive or uphill march into the mists of future. Left, right, left, right- deep breath and leap, etc.

This could be an ego-driven personality defect, but like so many of those flaws I harbor, I do not think it without its uses.

Oh, that fickle mistress we call inspiration! Dependent on both the outside and inner self. That idea that strikes and keeps one awake in hours that sleep would be more health beneficial. Or the absence, full of yearning for some aim or objective that ever eludes capture and classification. Something that I can never seem to get enough of, even when drowning in it. And a theme that I know entices and enrages many of my creative peers.

It is, this inspiration idea, something that I know myself capable of helping to conjure in others, even when more or less void within myself. And that does fill my soul with some slight sense of satisfaction, even if for nothing other than the reward that it is to see those dear to me succeed, even if only temporarily. I don’t know many static folks, or rather, those that I know that are so unmoving rarely hold prominence in my life. At least not in anything resembling perpetuity.

But I would like, very much, to be a rising tide for all those spiritual ships worthy. Hopefully without dooming my own vessel to the existential rocks. A difficult task, in these such seemingly trying times. Though, again, direct discussion of political ideologies will remain omitted from these rambles.

So, anyway. Dig.

I’ve been reading back the novels of my favorite writer, these days, while attempting to not make a bad habit of such actions. Just refreshing the inspiration from some ghost I find ideologically sublime. Recovering them, if they were ever really lost anywhere aside my own mind. But while holding its risks, this reanimation of old tales is not without merit. It assists in my footing, either in rediscovery or reassurance, to better stand in this world. Both for what I believe in, or in opposition against that which I do not abide. This is something found beyond just the pages of some nearly two-decade dead satirist, but he’s been in the front seat these last few weeks. With yours truly, ol’ Bruce, still at the helm.

The first half of the album is over. I believe I’ll finish this before I finish that. Write away with nothing more than the clack of keys, my insistent breaths, and the hum of this house keeping itself above a predetermined temperature. And of course, the ever echoing, occasionally screaming consciousness of mine. So, scream, whisper, yell, whimper, yawp, etc., you fool growing older by the minute.

If given the chance, or rather, taking the chance, upon every semi-decent appearing sunset, I wonder what my own will looking like. My last one, meaning end of day this sentience gets to see. An outrageous proposition, claiming possession for even a moment of a star’s existence. Bold even to assume that my cognition will last long enough to even comprehend such a thing as an exquisitely painted dusk. Not everyone gets that, I very well know. But on occasion, I can be so bold of a man. Particularly in this and these, my written word.

Yet, there is something to the ones in this frigid time of year. The clarity of the cold, contrasted and amplified by snow covered surfaces. Seemingly almost out of atmosphere, the lucidity of sky appears simultaneously distant and instant. And within that artic aligned light, I always sense a promise. That ever onward is where this is still set to get at. A strange enough idea, being surrounded by all this dead and dormant. But hey, inspiration, right? Fickle as all hell, that wonderful wench.

I stepped outside for a few moments. It’s a near full moon. One of my favorite aesthetics on this space rock. When that refracted solar light bounces off our natural satellite, cast upon the frozen precipitation accumulated all along my immediate surfaces. A darkness that teases enough light to be reminded of all the color on this planet, that our eyes can perceive, and our minds can comprehend.

A midwinter hint of summer’s daylight at night.

That’s a good line. Someone should write that down.

But anyway, I’m going to finish that record, full blast, while I do my lonely housewife shit.