Funny thing, this first month of spring. The tricky part being that most of it is still some dying winter.

And so, with specters of seasonal death and life lingering and languishing about, the poor metaphorical patterned relation towards my own life becomes evidently inescapable. This, my story, bookended on either side by mortality, whatever that really means.

Thousands of years, and mostly, no closer to any definite ‘why’ to life. According to the news, we might even be getting further away from such answers. Or closer to some prophesied end, or as is told by folks from the desert a great many ages ago, none of whom could conceive much of the modern world all spread out before us now. Except, maybe, how the people might be. All in all, we are only so evolved beyond that, among the averages. Or at least the common humanity rhymes a bit, a score or so centuries since all this doomsday shit. And all the lot before that, as well.

Yet, there are folks out there praying for Armageddon. Or certainly bankrolling it, for some semblance of a perceived eternal reward. Those wanting doom as salvation, well, it seems somehow that those numbers are growing. Or getting louder. Or getting better jobs, you know, the kind that can actually do something about it. But on the precipice of whether we, the people, will perpetuate past these last few generations that are currently occupying this blessed and/or forsaken space rock, it certainly seems. Despite this, I can still mostly only wonder so far from thinking of the personal tale that I’ve been telling, so far and onward, for all my life. The plot twists and anticipations if for nothing else than some auburn or adjacent herring, and, I think of the characters, both major and mild, and the impact of their existences on their own and within my own, and their entrances and exits, in all sorts of stage directions, in all sorts of impermanence and permanence alike. Because some go and return. And some, just go, and that’s all you ever get to know.

When younger, it seems easier to imagine a hero’s journey emerging from within your own existence. Older, now, and ever onward- the wonder consumes that something nearer to damned, darker, and such. And off Broadway production, The kind with cast that you know but can’t quite name. That sells a story that is potent, yet to filled with profoundness to ever hang about longer than within the walls where it briefly came to life.

Could be that I am naive enough to believe all that. Or, maybe, I always will be.

But I’ve been trying to not think of tragedies, and failing. And not thinking of my failures is going just as well. Even if there is nothing to be done to repent, or rectify- think on about it all, I will. Thinking of life and how goddam hard it is, and has gotten, and how it seems that nothing gets any easier, and yet, still- pressing onwards seems a duty to me, even if it was never within my rights.

It is, again, as always- this struggle to find peace within myself. A luxury, a bit, or a lot, at least for now.

There is less peace in the world than there was yesterday, and I cannot say that I am confident that the trend will turn towards something better soon. And the celebration of such devolvement is concerning, to say way less than I actually feel. Even in the land of milk and honey (mostly, or entirely stolen)- there are those with ancient imaginary friends proudly and loudly beckoning about an apocalypse. As though, madly, this world so beautiful and aplenty isn’t enough for their insatiable sense of righteousness.

But maybe, this is all deflection. Me, playing about with some hole in my chest that has been dug out for decades. Etc.

Another spring. Promises, promises.

Indolent and insecure, fear strikes deep when contemplating all that is already lost to the eternity, back to the nothingness from which all this everything whence came. Perhaps this is all the greed my desire dreams up, still grasping and clawing for more out of this short lifetime. Or just some somber and occasionally resentful mindset about that which never was or has been so long lost already. This control freak for the impossible, while ignoring all of that which my cosmically microscopic sphere of influence might really hold some sway at the helm.

Yet, within all that apparent pessimism- certainty remains that on the whole this group of sapiens upon this earth’s surface is still capable of so much. And not just in terms of the division and destruction that is so hopelessly abundant. But that we are still, somehow, capable of good. Of successes more universal and benevolent, That within us, and together, we can grant the future something better than all our yesterdays and years have left us.

Seems mad, at first. As so many of the things I write do. But when you sit an ponder for a genuine moment or more, the alignment makes a bit more sense. It starts small, you see. Everything does. The small things happen first, even in nature. Or especially so. After the frost, first fungus and the ambitious bulbs and such. Birds begin to linger, among the still frozen bits of land and air about. It is so easy to overlook, once everything is blatant and abundantly overflowing with the visible metrics of ecosystem radiance- you know, when all you can see is everything that you take for granted once it is gone. But as with any pioneer of merit, it is through rugged an impossible odds that anything ever emerges at all. Yet it all starts from nothing, more, or mostly less. Flowers and wars alike- at one point, it was all something that anyone around barely noticed at all.

But maybe, I’m just fighting for the hope of ghosts that could never hold such fire for long themselves. Or maybe they had to hold it for too long. Longer than most folks ever would in a singular lifetime.

So it goes.

For hopes and homes, and beings as a whole. Only one universe we’ve got access to. Can’t get everything.

This week, I suppose I don’t know where I am. Next week, I’ll be several states and a thousand miles away from here. Yet, thinking of this historically impactful season within this linear and singular progression of one beast has me wondering in ways I struggle to articulate. From this chair and throughout time, I think. Of charges of attempted affection. Of debilitating loss, not even a singular solar circuit past us now. So, I guess, Happy St. Patrick’s Day- whatever it might bring.

I wrote out more, by hand, but I’d rather not bother. It was mostly waiting for the power to come back on. Soft, soggy spring ground- so a tree gave up from the roots and knocked out the electricity, temporarily. So, dear reader, I bid ye goodnight. Maybe something groundbreaking next week, we’ll see. But for now, enough. Just let season go on as it will, whether I’m here or not. Whether you’re here, or not.

I might miss the snow, once it melts. Then again, I seem to miss a lot of things these days.