There is wonder about my mind on whether the pondering of point is a dying breed of intellect. Perhaps, it was a defect to begin with. All life that we know aside ourselves never seems to worry about why it is anything is or will be. Just us, simple little simians plagued with the itch to understand that which might not even be there to begin with. Just some cosmic accident, set to fade by way of extinction. Or at least the evolutionary sifting of such mindsets for something more obedient to the order of nature’s viciousness. Or, some controlling power stemming from some other human-based sentience.

Or, maybe I just feel tired. A heart simultaneously feeling full and aching with void, blending social settings both genuine and benign with the ever-pervasive isolation known to most souls exasperated by the conditions and circumstance of my own existence.

Maybe I’m sad that it was just my dead friend’s birthday. Maybe I’m even sadder since it is about to be my own. Birth anniversary, I mean. Not my death. Have no plans on that anytime soon, if ever. For even bedded deep in dreams of desolation most depressing- there is too much that I wish to do still.

Poor thing, he mutters to himself, this fool wants for everything.

But this isn’t the vibe I’m trying to wring out of this evening, so I’ll put on a record. The Psychedelic Furs should set this damned experiment on a better path.

A few days ago, after the apocalyptic haze began to fade, I was discussing life driving north from Kings County. We talked about being a puzzle piece in someone else’s life, and how that can never really be, whatever illusions we cast to the contrary. And the point I expressed, that almost surprised the very speaker himself, is that even if this whole life business is just a puzzle we put together to show the rest of existence- it is something that we never truly get to see. For once this existential conundrum is told in completion, it means that we have tasted our last breath of air. No matter what we do, we will never witness what it is our existence will amount to.

And maybe that is the beauty in it. And the difference between observing and being observed. For even now, as it stands within my own living skin- how it is that I am seen is always holding at least the slightest sliver of mystery. Educated guesses can be made, at times, but the mystery of the hearts and minds of others is only to be taken on the level of actions and articulations. And I’m sure you know, as well as I, that what is on the inside may not always reflect what we project outward. Not necessarily meaning that is intentional, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Everyone an enigma, to both the entertainers and entertained.

Yet, in our guesses and gestures abound, we do often get an idea of our meaning. Speaking from the self-narration perspective, I can tell you that I do my darndest to mean what it is my meaning might be. And most folks tend to trend towards honesty in how they herald their opinions and feelings about the egos inward and others. It doesn’t happen all that often, since I tend to be rather naturally amicable- but I will always eventually cast out those that abuse and abandon my empathies and sympathies. This whole ordeal is short enough, as is- no point in squandering time and energy on the unworthy or undeserving.

But the antithesis to that cynicism is in the efforts made to keep those that are worthwhile, and especially those souls that you know that the connection is authentic. Well, we know that as well as we can know anything, which at times can be damn near complete. For although losing those we love is an experience we all share, I selfishly wish to postpone enduring such points as long as possibility might allow. Which, of course, isn’t always up to us- if it ever is.

So onward with attempts at tempering my temper and other such emotions that I’m sure many of the ancients all had gods assigned to. My anger, my desperate desires, the envy and pity and the psychoanalytics of a cynic- although energy must be spent in maintaining their containment and weakness, I still, somehow, believe that striving for our better selves is the sort of aspiration that brings about even the most bite-sized benevolence. And that is the sort of light needed in this current point of the linear lunge forward of time. There is a permeating darkness and a lack of ignorance only reveals how destitute so many states of being and beings be. But to collapse, to submit to the subversive and sinister senses would only serve to exasperate the negative.

This is, as you might expect, easier said than done. But it is in the difficult that merit tends to blast away the masks and misrepresentations. For it is only the heavenly causes that anyone would ever march into hell. Or so the stories often go. And all stories come from somewhere, whatever reality might have been, will be, or is currently in the business of being.

For our lives are not puzzles, strewn out upon the cosmic table. They are stories. The tales we tell with our deeds and declarations while still around, and whatever eternity echoes them are spouted from the voices and visuals of those that are still around afterward. And eventually, it all becomes myth or mirthless whisper. But for at least a short while, those that knew you as well as anyone can be known can tell the history as close to the honesty that you might have hoped for. And depending on how they tell it from there, the essence as close to as intended might keep finding its way to the future. Even as far as to be entirely removed from the source material, the point might still get made.

As foretold, the Furs settled this better than it felt upon the evening’s initiation. And from here, so shall I sally forth, dear reader. To run where the brave dare not go, etc. Whatever that might end up meaning.

Might even pick up the guitar. For as the voice of my beloved companion now gone had said-

‘Do you want to play music? You don’t have to, but it’d be better if you did.’