Is it all just reminiscent of some vicious yesterday? The hope, a hollow, hallowed equation leading to nowhere you haven’t been, and all the places that you’ll never go?

Apologies. A bit hungover. Listening to a lot of Tom Waits today. There is something to a sadness on a seeming immaculate late summer day. Seems a more triumphant manner of morose. Not constant, but feeling as though it were, eternal in the moment, then gone.

This too, shall fade.

Thematically, I feel much of the same tide, as of late. Though even that is a bit of a mild dishonesty. Change is always occurring, even when I might not be able or willing to perceive it. Or worse, I just ignore it outright. Bad habits have a hearty shelf life.

Seeing myself as both older and younger than most everyone close to my actual age, a tired trope that seems clichéd and unescapable, all irritated and sensational. Feeling the nights grow longer is not unwanted, for I, at least. In need of some deciduous death of the visible, living beauty I cannot ignore. All while I wonder whether all this philosophizing only gains me more questions. The more I know, the more I know I don’t know much of anything at all.

But I always get like this after a wedding, if you’ll excuse me.

Been attempting to break the melancholic mind that thinks it has all the answers, and none of them are very good. The certainty of cynicism cajoles its way with the truth, even when it has no right to it. And while I fight the fights believed to be benevolent, the selfishness of want seems insubordinate to subsiding. All the ideas of ego death on the march towards enlightenment, all the transcendental reduction of identity and pondering this vast and incomprehensible universe, and still, I think, what about me?

Thinking of the future, while not drowning in the past, I attempt to remain present. To be open to what has yet to be while not denying chances influenced by all that is not, nor will ever be. Thinking of acceptance while not being able to accept it. All these contradictions and opposing dichotomies of my mind. Might be I am just aiming to distract myself. Or avoiding some purpose not yet seen, though I believe the very idea of purpose is a human construct. The truth is that we live for a while, then die. And that as time erodes away our memory, all this business of what is important will be nothing more than dust, and that broken apart by the ever-changing atmosphere.

As you might have gathered by now, I have no idea what the fuck to write about.

There was a line that someone read to me, recently, though I can’t recall the original source. Feels right to insert it here, now.

‘I wish to write, but I don’t know what to say.’

Honestly, it is beyond a wish. It is a necessity. A requirement for my continued existence. To write. But having something to say, can so often seem to elude your narrator. And without the potency of idea behind it, only a vain aesthetic exists with any of this.  So let’s dig in, and drive the stake through the heart of this existential beast.

The pain of it all allows the certainty we’re actually alive. And through the discrepancy of our personalities, we find all that vivid color in life. The sonic invitations, the visual sensations, the touch of cold, hot, and otherwise upon skin. Alive not only for ourselves, but for the worthwhile folks all around us. Life as an experience and not a state of status. The curiosity of a child expanded to cover all our personal timelines, and beyond, to whatever legacy that might get left behind.

Or maybe I’m just full of shit in a quest for meaning that I’ll never truly understand.

Not feeling the fervor this evening, though, and I’m probably too exhausted to force it. And force never works well with this sort of thing. It is a daring enough proposition, to believe that weekly I can keep conjuring some defining perspective that is somehow unique.

But then again, I don’t believe these all to each be their own individual endeavor. Through these many years now, this is all one linked experiment, dreamt up some sad Sunday Morning in the middle of my collegiate days, days now almost as far gone as they took to get to. A documentation of headspace over the course of ages, growing and imploding along with my spirit.

I suppose it’s obvious that I am not quite certain where it is my heart and mind might be, at the moment. Not lost in grey, but in a fury of rapidly modulating light and color. And the truth is that it has always been that way. There are times when there seems to be a bit more harmony, but it is never some static depiction. Dynamic in being until the day I cease to be. And even then, my decomposition is still an act of action in this living world. But years away from that, we hope.

The focus isn’t finding me, though. The objective of this moment remains cloudy, and I don’t see any more insights arriving from this act. I’ll just have to rest up and look elsewhere, or here, again, in another time. I try not to keep bleeding stones, no matter how romantic I might be.

So my seeking will go elsewhere, for now. Perhaps in a book or a song, and my soon to be unconscious mind. The only place that I can never truly hide. So, until next week, dear reader. Might be we’ll have more to talk about then.