There is an inherent difficulty with the regularity of this ramble. Tragically confined to a day and time, hoping the inspiration might be found without force having to be applied. It slows and stalls the words, at the moment, as I scrambled about scattered and non-linear notes made throughout the chaos of the day. Controlled and benevolent chaos, mostly, but chaos all the same. But anyway, onward, right?

              A good friend told me that last week’s ramble felt hopeful, and it might be that is exactly the case. Somehow, within all this, I am feeling the inkling of the idea of holding on to all this hope that the world seems so otherwise bent on kicking out of me. And it would even seem that the festive aggression with this time of year hasn’t phased and frustrated me as it so often has in years past. This similar encroaching solstice from our last go around the sun had your humble narrator feeling particularly destitute, fool that he is, having no idea that greater and unrelenting tragedy was just around the corner. And now as these days grow to their shortest extent, still drenched in grief and guilt and sorrow, there is a strange peace about my mind that I would have dreamt unimaginable just weeks ago.

              So, waste not, I suppose. For even though this so often feels like the universe where Tiny Tim ends up dying, cute little felt frog puppet that he is- I still aim to look forward and see what else might get wrung out of such an existence as this one. After all, forward is the only we are ever able to go.

              There is no stroke of the pen that can undo what has been, or not any that I have discovered as of yet. The ink of the past is dry and nothing can be done about that. Except maybe attempt to cover it up, but anyone with even the slightest hint of sense and a bit of attunement to something resembling this reality would know that anything to conceal our past, collective or individual, would be a fallacy. A forgery, contrived and unconvincing to even a mind grow blunt and dull.

              The dead are dead. And that’s that. It is up to us living, if we so choose, to keep at this life, even when seemingly bound to an overbearing barrage of hopelessness.

              The longer nights regularly bring about the thought of how much this year has cost. And yet, I stand, still willing to pay the price for another step into the future, and even just the slightest sliver of hope. And within the dark realism shrouding this existence, things appearing otherworldly are still possible. You know, like good things. And still, somehow, I am willing to risk a heart and mind that have already been so battered and bruised and beaten, in the slightest, even insane chance of things getting a few steps higher than just working out. Might just be the madness talking, but this old fool still has the fight in him. Closer now to forty than twenty-one, there still survives this aspect of undying youth within me. And I plan to keep feeding it whatever I can find, make it fat in abundance, and scraping by in times of near famine.

              Strange, isn’t it, that the moments more surreal in this life are the ones that especially feel like a more veracious reality? Is it scarcity that makes the feelings so sparse, or just the overabundance of mundane trivialities? But it is true enough, that the smallest moments can seem to hold a longevity far beyond whatever space and time they actually occupy. And though nothing lasts forever, there are things that last lifetimes, or at least the remainder of one. And it those instances that are the type that inspire. Not some artificial or constructed type of inspiration, but the kind that can devour your very being and shape the person that moves onward from them.

              But this life, it still hits hard. So often it feels like it is hitting you all at once, and if you’re anything like me, its been hitting you the whole time. And isn’t likely to stop. But to crumble is something of a choice, as keeping it together, even if it is only one final thread still intact. And it will always keep happening while it is that you as a person in this weorld are happening. It’s all about learning the stance, while the attacks are always altering, so adapt you must. Feet firmly planted is a quick way to fall, even if it has the façade of strength. Better to dance with it, clumsy though it may be. The right kinds of people find that endearing anyway.

              It will never be perfect, but it can be right, even if for only a moment or so. Maybe longer, but maybe not. It is up to us to accept those moments when you can, knowing full well that you might miss. And even if what appeared to be, is not, or is no longer- your eyes have to remain open if you are to witness anything of the like again. And the heart, too. But trust me, I get how terrifying that can be. Not that I have a heart. Can’t let people know that, having a real tough guy reputation to uphold.

              But, I think that will do for this evening. Not my greatest work, but I wasn’t intending it to be. Sometimes this is but an exercise, to keep the mechanics of mind going onward to whatever might lie ahead. No point in bleeding stones, as they say.