There is something to the silence once everyone leaves. Might be the emptiness that is always there. That ever-encompassing void. But anyway, here we are, aren’t we? Yet again. Almost as though it has been scheduled.

     I could think of the world, and write about it, but maybe you’re tired of that. Could write about myself, but I suppose I grow weary of that subject. So maybe both. Or neither. Or some combination thereafter. I guess we’ll just have to see how this goes. I believe I’ll put on a record, because what’s one more bad idea, right?

     You always think you’d feel older as it begins to happen, but perhaps I’d been warned that this would always be the case. That none of us knows what they’re doing. That none of us ever really gets to know much of anything. Except for the idealists, but they get so caught in thoughts that every other being gets so easily ignored when no discernable purpose isn’t being served. And these idealists, so often, what they know to be true, is so very wrong. I know. Believe it or not, I too, have been an idealist from time to time. Again and again. Might even be one before all this wraps up, only for it to unfold come the next arrival of our star’s light on this part of the hemisphere.

If there is one thing I can say, it would be to be wary of those that claim that they know. Such words, even when charming and lofty and all that, are just that. Words, and superficial ones at that. Even more so when claimed from a place of knowledge. The wisest thing most people ever say is the admittance to a lack of knowing. The reduction of self to know that all this everything ends up meaning not much of anything. That to know thyself is to know that there really isn’t much of a self, not for long, anyway. Even if you get a beyond average lifespan, it pales in comparison to the average rock, which never bothers about much of this anyway.

     But maybe that is a bit too self-indulgent? Maybe you want to talk about the state of things. Of this nation. Of this world, in this time. Of this species, always thinking ourselves so special. It’s okay. I do it too. Might be my worst addiction. Siddhartha and a fellow from Nazareth might have had a few things to say about that. Not the folks who picked up their schtick after them, they all get it wrong, at least a little bit. Which includes us, I’d suppose.

     Maybe the stars in my eyes died lightyears away, and time has yet to catch up. Maybe I’d lasso the moon, only to strangle the life from it. Or maybe these celestial parts of my being are always going to be there, be here, as long as the life beats within me. Which is for awhile still, or so I aim. Hard to say, from upon this rock hurdling through space.

     I wonder what it is that makes us desire that our lives mean something. Some defect, perhaps? And to whom, I ask, is this all supposed to mean. Having not died yet, I cannot say what it is that comes to mind. And although I’ve been talking to ghosts plenty, none of us seem to bring that particular subject up. And even when I ask, well, they never really answer. Not in a way I can understand. A sunset, maybe? A cool breeze? A bird landing on a ledge? But what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

     It seems that I am always searching through my mental artifacts for meaning, not that I’ve ever found much besides what I had already preconceived. Could it just be that I am imposing my personal impossibilities on other people? Could be this is all a dance with mistress idea and when midnight strikes no one is left to be found. Just us derelicts and pumpkins.

     This all seems dark, doesn’t it? Defense mechanism. There were folks writing songs on my living room floor not a few hours ago. There were harmonies of all sorts in the air, and words played with, aloud and with sonic beauty, that speak more than many a great theses otherwise proposed. If being blessed is actually a thing (a divinity I personally deny outside the human mind), then blessed, I am.

     For within all the grim that never leaves me alone much more than my own shadow does, I have had and held so much beauty, even if for only a moment or two. Or even just a half a moment, or less. I’ve had plenty of days that folks could feed themselves for a lifetime upon, yet greedy ol’ me, ever seeking satiation beyond what is there.

     A friend of mine read some of his poems out, a few dozen minutes ago. Because for all my gripes occasionally otherwise, this is the life I have. That is the home I have built. A place where poetry is written and read out loud. Among a great many other beautiful deeds and expressions.

     So, anyway. This poet buddy of mine, he spoke of the relief of not forcing a smile, more or less. Not that it means a frown, just the ease of not enforcing a face that isn’t occurring naturally. As he read it, I felt every muscle on the front of my skull retreat and unconfine itself, and just be. And it felt good. I, felt good. So thank you, for that, dear friend.

     Someone else sent me a line from a book that I don’t even know the name of. The sort of line that brings your humble narrator to mind, when being read.

     One character asks another, she asks-

     ‘How do you become a poet?’

     So, the other character, the one that reminded this person of me, I’m assuming, this character, she replies-

     ‘By feeling things- too much, I suppose.’

     If you’ve been anywhere near a regular reader for these rambles, I’m sure you’d agree- that sure sounds a lot like something I’d say. Or worse, write.

     But if there are things I’ve left unsaid, for now, they will remain that way. Exhausted and energized, I can no longer remain in this seat, staring at this page. I never expect a miracle from these, and I intend to bleed no stones. Not tonight.

     Maybe, I’m just okay with knowing that I haven’t been so crazy, all these years. Or always just crazy enough.

     It’s all in the timing.

     And if that isn’t funny, I don’t know what is.