that burned with sweetness or maddened
the sting: the struggle continues,
the journeys go and come between honey and pain.
No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no net.
They don’t fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river.
Sleep doesn’t divide life into halves,
or action, or silence, or honor:
life is like a stone, a single motion,
a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves,
an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal
that climbs or descends burning in your bones. Pablo Neruda, Still Another Day
The fingers. They aren’t the trigger. They’re never the trigger. They are the trembling beauties that are never sure of what they are doing.
The time. Time. It must have been one of the impossible titans of yesteryear. Hold on to something long remembered. Pushing a rock the wrong way up a hill.
We find beats. We repeat them. We partition and hunt the meandered fractions of measured assurance and we flay them alive. And yet here I am sitting isolated trying to speak on behalf of something far greater than I am.
Frank Sinatra must have lived in a mirrored reflection of the facade of a mirrage. Because that is exactly where I am.
Why do the words and works of other people inhibit the electrical impulses coursing through me? Its almost as if they organize the potential differences in my head into a series of strings that are pulled and sewn in a loom like fashion. Its beautiful and eerie orchestra exploding and whispering in my mind. I am the conductor. I am the symbolic cascade that seems to be directing and operating the whole endeavor. But I am not the musicians. I do not have the final word. I am not the artist.
I wonder how Diana must have cried as sun rose bloomed on the first night she looked to see her friend, her companion ascending the heavens.
Not by anyone in particular.
No relationship in my life has changed. Well they did. They always do. But not in the way it feels inside.
I just feel like I lost someone or something.
I’m simply terribly sad. Sad in a way that feels like the end of a relationship.
I can’t tell if it was a break up that was because of hurt, an argument, betrayal or such.
Or if it was circumstantial. Like we had to decide between work and a relationship and I chose work. The adventure of a new life while giving up the adventure of a relationship.
Its so strange. Its a very bittersweet (
oiwejpoifej that word) feeling. It feels good to know I was loved. It feels good to know I cared. Yet the vacancy is difficult to maneuver around. Its awkward and I can’t stop welling up.
Also. This has all been fabricated with no instructions or explanation. So more than anything it is terribly confusing.