The typewriter has been collecting dust. So have a few of the guitars, and such. Perhaps, I am, as well. Or so say the thoughts so regularly fermenting within my little existence. As each minute and more continues to march out, almost as quick as it all seemed to arrive.

And so, I think of the dreams, collecting their own lifeless particles upon each surface. And time, she has no patience or mercy. None that I can perceive, anyway.

The addiction of nostalgia and the hyper-fixation upon what should be or should have been- oh, that ultimate fallacy I should know better than to abide by, and yet.. I so often find my mind cluttered by the demands of each cadence and collection of hours, and all the demands that seem to appear with it. The wasted tomorrows fighting for yesterdays, all spun idly by in the present.

Maybe I’m just a nihilistic optimist, all my practicality drowned in emotion. Or some present tense pessimist, seeing so much as the nothing it ends as, instead of all the penultimate beauty so abundant in each and every moment.

Or, I could just be lazy.

Sublimated and submerged in the ideas of my own aesthetics, viciously intertwined with this restless listlessness. Either wishing the madness away entirely, or for unadulterated access to some unlimited supply of it. Yet, it is always the in between which stokes the constantly agitated embers of this well-aged blend of ambition and anxiety. In the dashes of madness, impossibly bottled, the conflagration of creativity seems to align just enough to produce the perfectly fleeting ponderance of peace. The fulfilling sigh just before it fails.

That is the common human thread, right? Even if it only becomes some bastardized belligerency- the idea that emerges within all of us to seek some sort of peace, a balance, with this consciousness we feel either is blessed or cursed upon us. The balance to know that it isn’t really either, and can almost always be what you make it to be. Space and time molded by eyes that dawn and dim in a moment most stars wouldn’t even notice. And whatever beauty or behemoth of dread we perceive can only be cast outward by some expression that while always inexplicable, somehow always finds at least a micro universe to reside as far as the hearts and minds of others. These things- music, literature, art, dance, and so on- from the vacuums of humanity, these beasts emerge to save us, even if it means tearing us to shreds.

It is a comfort, I suppose, to know that the computer is far too self-correcting to ever make any art worth the test of time. It can calculate and formulate all the patterns into a pristine collection and regurgitate the product and dividends back out and only pass as the genuine article to itself and it’s kin, and the dullest aspects of our own species. For you see, it is the sour notes that make us who we are. The deceptive cadence that invokes our interest and stirs this thing called a soul, whatever in the hell that actually is. The computer can only show us amalgamations of what already is. Refined and spotless, perhaps. But that which has yet to be seen, that which has not been heard, or read- that task is still our burden, with a cost that is often great.

Because life isn’t about the melodies you already know, it is about seeking the ones we still can’t even imagine.

 Or so I seem to keep believing. Even as so much faith fades and flees my being, to this, I hold on. That not only will something emerge from the ether of human beings outside my mind, but that something of that sort of worthwhile sentiment is still set to arrive from between my eyes, by the forging of my own hands, and from this constantly breaking and replicating heart of mine.

There was a line emerging from the record playing softly in the other room that strikes me at this moment.

‘And who I am, is not measured by what I’ve become.’

And even if what I have become is something of some ultimate good, I refuse to be satiated by it. That is who I am. Always seeking, for whatever brief section of eternity I temporarily hold. Always onward, through the fields of flowers and landmines I make for myself. Through all the chemicals, uncontrollable and otherwise. Through all the pride and pitiable moments, through all the triumph and tragedy- through it all, I still feel this unquenchable itch to move towards more.

Could be that this is all part of my tendencies towards a bit of the theatric. You know, the tasteful sort. The slightly absurdist, Off-Broadway type of joint. Each of us players, etc.

For as the typewriter may have (temporarily) accumulated some dust, the trigger on my camera has not. That even has some scratches from overuse. And without fail, another week has found me here, producing a ramble for at least one man. And it has found us here, again. You and I, whoever you might be.

And not pandering to any perceivable trends keeps these still adhering to their essence, even if mostly ignored outwardly.

But, the piano keys, they’ve been getting their dusting, as well. From hands that are not my own, yet are still of my partial making.

And as the old ivories and ebonies grow out of tune, it reminds me of my grandfather. The only reason such an instrument is even in my home to begin with, is he. And that isn’t the only gift from a ghost in this musical mausoleum of mine. Which I suppose means this space is overdue for some life, again.

Maybe I just miss the hug I know I’ll never hold again. Maybe the winter is getting to me a bit, even with my adoration for the season. Maybe pushing through is enough to get to some point of reinvigoration, and if not, at least it is enough to get to tomorrow top try, and likely fail, again.

But either or any which way, by the end of this ramble, I remain convinced to return again next week. If only for the oiling of my intellectual and sentimental wheels, I persist.

To throw another line from the aforementioned tune, ‘I don’t know what it is, I don’t care what it is- I’m this’.

And so, this I shall be. Until it can be maintained no longer, which is not soon, if I can will it so.